


But, Honestly

by runoutofwit



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 2014!Cas, Addiction, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Drugs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Whump, future!cas - Freeform, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-23
Updated: 2012-06-28
Packaged: 2017-11-04 05:06:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 42,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/390079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runoutofwit/pseuds/runoutofwit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been more than five years since the Winchesters left Lawrence, Kansas. Now, Dean and Sam return, and Dean is forced to confront the one regret he has from when he left: he never told his best friend he was even leaving. When he finally sees Castiel again, it's like meeting a completely new person.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Here We Are

The apartment was small, tight, and bare, but as Dean looked around, he nodded his head approvingly and a smile crept onto his face. He took the large box in his hands and placed it on the floor of the kitchenette, then turned around to see his sixteen-year-old brother lugging in two boxes of the same size.

 

“Damn, Sammy. Trying to make me look scrawny?”

 

Dean strolled over to his little brother, rubbing the brown mop of hair that sat atop the kid’s head. Sam scowled, whipping his head like an angry horse being bothered by a fly. He sat the boxes down and got up from his crouched position, glaring at his strangely happy brother. Even with their four year age difference, the two were matched in height.

 

“Ah, don’t get your panties in a bunch. This is the last move for two years!” the older one chirped. He was obviously pleased with the situation, and it honestly made Sam uncomfortable.

 

The junior couldn’t remember the last time that he’d seen Dean so ecstatic about something that wasn’t blonde, busty, and beautiful. But here he was, strutting around the cramped apartment, admiring it, and then rushing past Sam to unload some more. It was strange, to say the least.

 

The younger one couldn’t admit to having the same level of excitement. Things seemed different, and to an extent they were, but how much different were they _really_? After all, he’d heard this before. Seattle, Denver, Charlotte, New York, Columbus, Chicago—it was always the same. Dad always said that they were done moving, that they should get comfortable because they’d be there for a while. But that was always a lie. They never ended up staying someplace for more than four months before Dad’s job was sending him to be a sales rep in some other town, where he could “best serve the company.” So, Sam had stopped believing it, just like Dean had.

 

But this was different from all the other times. First of all, they were back in their hometown. It was the first time the brothers had been there since they’d left five years ago, and whenever Sam or Dean had asked if they could go back just for a weekend to see their friends, their father answered with a stern “no,” and the boys would be left feeling angry and bitter.

 

Secondly, their dad wasn’t going to be there. Apparently, after asking and negotiating for months, Dean had finally managed to talk the old man into letting them go back to Lawrence. Their father would stay behind with work, going wherever The Company needed him; Dean and Sam would live in a cheap apartment, with Dean paying for groceries and half the rent.

 

Sam thought that he’d dealt well with the whole moving thing, himself. Even without actually revisiting Lawrence, he’d still been able to keep up with his friends through text messages, calls, email, Facebook. It wasn’t as good as actually seeing them, but it was a nice way to stay in touch while he was away.

 

Dean, on the other hand? Well, that was a whole other story.

 

“Dude! Get your butt moving, and help me get the furniture!”

 

Sam snapped out of his brief contemplation, looking at the front door. Who knew? Maybe it would be different.

 

But probably not.

 

Five hours later, everything was in the house, all the furniture was set up, and all the boxes were unpacked. Dean had worked himself and Sam to the bone, not letting there be any breaks or any eating. _That_ , in and of itself, was an absolute miracle… Or a sign of the oncoming apocalypse. Dean was constantly hungry and could always eat. The fact that Sam had offered to go out to get food and that Dean had _rejected_ that offer was mildly terrifying

 

With an exhausted sigh, Sam collapsed on the couch, looking at the sparsely-decorated space around him. There really wasn’t much there. The couch was set in the middle of the room, facing a wall and an old television, which was unceremoniously plopped on the ground. There were no decorations. No pictures on the walls, no flowers in domestic vases, no fat, cherubic statuettes. Nothing. A couple secondhand barstools were pulled up to the island that divided the kitchen from the living room. A pile of broken down boxes was stacked next to the front door.

 

And that was it. A pile of paper plates and plastic silverware was on the counter, along with a TV dinner. The other dinner was already buzzing in the microwave, sending a smell through the air that left Dean’s stomach loudly voicing its hunger. With a groan, Dean collapsed onto the couch next to his brother, stretching out.

 

“Everything’s done, and it’s just past six. That’s some good team work.” An oddly self-satisfied smile came over his face, and he glanced over at the still-brooding Sam. He frowned, giving the younger man a shove on the shoulder. “Hey! What’s your problem?” he asked, sounding a bit more subdued.

 

Sam turned to him, teal eyes offering exasperation and irritation. “Sorry, Dean. I’m just not exactly stoked,” he replied, obvious bitterness in his tone.

 

The excited optimism was suddenly wiped from the twenty-year-old’s face. His brows knitted together with a frown. Sam was unsure if he was feigning confusion or if he genuinely didn’t understand. Sighing, he looked away for a moment before bringing his gaze back to Dean.

 

“Look, I know you’re just trying to be helpful,” the younger brother said as appeasingly as possible, “but it’s kind of hard to be optimistic, y’know? I mean, we’ve moved around so much…You might think it won’t happen again, but what are the chances? Dad barely let you do this in the first place. He’ll probably…” The sentence ended with a pause, followed by a heavy exhale. “I just don’t want to get my hopes up.”

 

Dean frowned, running a hand through his hair. He knew he should’ve expected this type of skepticism from Sam. He scratched the back of his head before letting his hand fall to his lap.

 

“This time is different, Sammy—” He listened as Sam began to sharply inhale, but Dean stopped him before he could interject. “No, it _really_ is. We’re back in Lawrence! I mean, sure you probably don’t remember much of it, I mean you were two or something—“

 

 

“Dean, I was ten.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Close enough. The point is this is a great town. Dad’s letting us stay here, and we should just make the best of it. It’s going to be good here!” Dean tried to give a reassuring smile, but it came out looking more plastic and fake than anything. “You got friends here. You’ve been keeping up with them on that… MyFace thing or whatever, right? This’ll be good for you, Sam. Trust me. And as long as I’m here, we’re not leaving.”

 

There was still a frown on Sam’s face, and he let out a sigh. He didn’t believe his brother—not one bit—, but he supposed he could at least give the place a shot. After all, he did have friends here. He could probably be relatively comfortable living in Lawrence, at least for the time being. But he still couldn’t help but wonder about Dean. Why did he want to come back? He hadn’t even attempted to stay in touch with anyone. Why come back here, after six years?

 

_DING DING DING_

 

The microwave whined loudly as it announced that one of the dinners was done. Sam watched with interest as his brother went and got the meal from the microwave, sticking in a second one to be cooked.

 

There had to be something else going on, didn’t there?

 

They ate dinner silently, watching one of the eight cable channels that they’d stolen. Neither of them said anything, and Dean never looked over at Sam. The older brother’s enraptured gaze was odd, especially when the only thing on the television was just some dumb show about attractive doctors giving melodramatic confessions to one another.

 

“Alright, I’m heading out.”

 

Dean looked up, surprised at his brother’s sudden leaving. With a mouthful of processed gravy and meat, he asked, “Wher’ oo goin’?”

 

“Meeting up with some friends. They wanted to welcome me back, so we’re going to get some ice cream downtown,” answered Sam easily.

 

He walked over to the trashcan, dropping the plastic utensils and tray into the trashcan.

 

After his food was swallowed, Dean frowned. “Okay. Just be home by ten, okay?”

 

The blue-eyed young man furrowed his brows, looking intently at his brother. Had he really just been given a curfew? By Dean?

 

He answered slowly, unsure of himself, “Uh…Yeah. Sure, I’ll be here.”

 

The door seemed to shut unusually loud behind him. After a moment, a wave of exhaustion fell over the older man’s face. He sat in the near-empty room, staring at the television for a few moments before turning it off. Sprawling out on the couch, the young man stared at the ceiling in deep contemplation.

 

Things were going to be better here…right? No Dad, no restrictions, no moving around… But the more Dean thought about it, the more nervous he became. Sam had left the town on pretty good terms. Dean, however... there were more people here who hated his guts than he could count on one hand (though a majority of them were ex-girlfriends). However, as he thought about his little brother going off to meet his friends, he couldn’t help but feel a knot form in his stomach.

 

His thoughts wandered to his own friend—or, at least, the one who used to be his friend. They’d been the tightest of buds; they’d done everything together. Now, a pang of guilt hit Dean at the thought of accidentally running into him. It probably wouldn’t happen, though… There were some eighty-thousand people in this town! The odds of running into Cas were slim to none.

 

Not wanting to bother himself with nostalgic mind vomit, Dean stood up and grabbed his keys and wallet. He wasn’t about to just sit here alone. It was a Saturday night! Dean could at least swindle someone into giving him some booze and perhaps flirt with some hot brunette for a couple hours. After all, like he’d told Sammy: they needed to make the best of this.


	2. Stranger in a Strange Land

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean goes to a bar, but the person he sees there cannot possibly be the person he's thinking of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a lot longer than chapter one, and the subsequent chapters will probably be around this length, as well. (PS. I fucked around with ages a little bit; oops.)

Dean had innocently walked into the grungy dive, flashing the bouncer a fake ID and a twenty to gain entrance. The heavy bass of some rock song rattled the smoke-filled air. Despite the loud music, the place was pretty quiet. Only a few people were gathered at the tables, drinking cheap beer and chattering away. Expert eyes scoped the scene, trying to pick out a few girls that he might be interested in.

 

He sat at the bar with a grunt, not having seen anyone particularly fascinating. After checking his watch, he took note that it _was_ only seven. As the night went on, the place would slowly become more populated. Hell, by midnight, there’d probably be—

 

Oh, right. He had to be home by ten to make sure Sam got home. Well…Fuck. That certainly put a damper on things. That was one thing he’d forgotten to take into consideration with this plan; he couldn’t stay out all night. Well, maybe his little brother could stay home for a bit by himself. After all, he was going to be seventeen in a few months. He could handle being alone while Dean had a couple drinks.

 

Green eyes looked up and down the bar, finally resting on the only person behind it, completely oblivious to Dean waiting there. The bartender was wearing a tight-fitted black shirt, exposing his tattooed arms. A black tribal pattern wound its way up the man’s right arm, slowly turning into open-mouthed snakes near the shoulder. From that angle, Dean was able to see a handful of studs protruding from the man’s ears. He could already tell that this guy was going to get under his skin; he looked like a total douchebag.

 

Trying to contain his irritation, the brunette asked, “Hey. What’s a guy gotta do to get a beer around here, huh?”

 

The bartender’s head turned up from whatever he’d been doing, the feathery brown hair sticking in strange directions resulting from a long, stressful day. Turning around, he was obviously annoyed, brows furrowed and pink lips turned down and big blue—

 

And that’s when it had Dean. He was staring down this familiar stranger with a look of shock and…Well, more shock. The bartender had a similar look. His eyebrows had raised, mouth parted slightly with words stuck in his throat. A moment passed between them as they each took in the other’s appearance.

 

This was obviously a dream. This was obviously just some really weird, fucked up dream. Dean must’ve fallen asleep feeling guilty, and then his brain decided to whip up this… _monstrosity_. Okay, okay. Monstrosity was probably a harsh word, but this was just _so_ different! So… _eugh_.

 

“Dean Winchester?” The bartender’s voice was gravely, low, and perhaps the most surprising feature. His inhumanly blue eyes narrowed, squinting as if Dean might morph into someone else. But nothing happened and his face relaxed slightly, still with that look of disbelief.

 

“Cas?” Dean added, hesitantly.

 

He leaned in, head turned slightly as he took in the man’s appearance. There was a stink of cigarette smoke and alcohol wafting from the blue-eyed young man. He had certainly matured… Recognition seemed to register on the bartender’s face and Dean thought he could see something akin to fear there. If it was there, it had quickly been replaced by a smile.

 

“Dean Winchester…” He repeated the name again, shaking his head with a huge grin plastered on his face. Soon, a short laugh came from his mouth, and it may have been the most relieving thing to ever grace the Winchester’s ears. “Damn, man! I can’t—I can’t believe you’re here! I thought you were gone for good.”

 

There was still a look of utter confusion on Dean’s face as the man opposite him clasped his shoulder, a look of uncharacteristic cheerfulness on his face. “It’s great to see you,” the green-eyed man said slowly, trying to compose himself. “Uh… Wow! You sure look different.”

 

A smirk flickered over Cas’ face, eyes taking on a mischievous quality as he answered, “Yeah. I guess I have. People change a lot in six years. But you… Well, you look just the same as ever.” Something similar to contentment came to his lips, and the young man turned around, grabbing some liquor from a fridge and bringing it to Dean.

 

Dean, however, was still busy staring at Castiel with amazement. The image of a young boy flashed in his head, a boy with bright blue eyes and messy hair, wearing his Sunday’s best with a Bible clutched in his arms as if it were a life-preserver. His face was stern, though, conveying expressions too old for his body with a mind too naïve for the high school he attended. That image was stamped in Dean’s brain as the polar opposite to this much older, much different being standing before him, which somehow held the same name, knowledge, and physical qualities.

 

When the bartender turned around, Dean coughed into his fist, sitting up a little higher. His eyes would only stay on Cas for a brief moment before they’d dart away, looking anywhere but at what was before him.

 

“Y-yeah…I guess I haven’t,” the Winchester replied, nodding. He took the bottle of beer that was put out for him, thanking the blue-eyed oddity. Silence passed as he took a swig, trying to think of exactly _what_ to say. After all, if Cas wasn’t going to bring up Dean’s sudden disappearance from Lawrence, then Dean sure as hell wasn’t going to, either.

 

Luckily, however, another person entered and sat at the bar, requiring Cas’ attention. The young man dismissed himself to go take care of the customer, and the Winchester was allotted some time to think of what to say. As the other had said, it’d been almost six years since they’d talked to each other. When his father had told him that they’d be leaving, Dean had decided not to tell Cas and had ensured that Cas’ brothers wouldn’t tell him either. So, when the Winchesters suddenly disappeared from Lawrence, the blue-eyed sophomore had probably been shocked. But Dean didn’t want to think about that, so he tried to think of boring, mundane questions to ask as he slowly finished his beer.

 

A few minutes later, Dean’s friend returned, eyes glancing around and surveying the bar. “So, I can’t really talk right now, and I don’t get off until midnight. Boss is coming in for inspections tonight. You wanna do something after? Get ourselves some drinks, catch dinner or a snack or something?”

 

Trying to ignore Castiel’s more crude word choice, Dean nodded, gulping down the rest of the throat-sizzling liquid. “Uh, y-yeah! Sure,” the man replied, nodding enthusiastically. After a moment, though, he seemed to realize what he’d just said and took to shaking his head violently, “I mean, no, uh, no, I can’t, but another time?”

 

Damn. He obviously sounded nervous, and surely Cas could pick up on it. But if the bartender sensed anything out of the ordinary, he didn’t let on.

 

“I have to make sure Sammy gets home by ten and goes to bed at a reasonable hour and all that stuff.” His brain grabbed at all the knowledge he had of the blue-eyed man, before he finally asked, “Uh, church? Can we arrange something there? You still go to St. Joseph’s, right?”

 

Dean wasn’t exactly really very religious in the least bit. In fact, Dean probably hadn’t believed in God in many, _many_ years. Sam, on the other hand, still seemed to hold some faith and hope, and Cas’ entire family consisted of staunch Catholics. The short-haired brunette could even recall his friend saying several times that he wanted to become a priest or a missionary when he got older.

 

However, the begotten reaction was not what Dean had been expecting. A strange smirk crept over Cas’ lips, finally turning into a full out smile as if he’d been trying to hold it back. “Yeah. I’ll be there,” he replied, some strange, devious undertone in his words.

 

Green eyes narrowed at the man for a moment, but now seemed as good a time as ever to leave. The young man got to his feet, dishing out a few dollars for the beer. “Okay. I’ll see you around, Cas.”

 

He didn’t dare another look at his friend. Dean simply turned and left the bar as quickly as possible. Once out in the cool air, he let out a huge breath that he hadn’t known he’d been holding. That was certainly not how he’d thought that would turn out. In fact, the young man had honestly thought that he’d get chewed out. Instead, he’d gotten a rather polite response from a pierced and needled stranger who actually wanted to hang out instead of beat him to a bloody pulp (unless the plan was to get Dean alone and _then_ beat him to a bloody pulp).

 

It was times like this when Dean wished he smoked. Walking the streets of downtown Lawrence, his fingers itched and his stress levels rose. That hadn’t been anything like what he’d expected. Hell, if he hadn’t known better, he’d think that Cas just had an evil twin or something. But he had about twelve hours to think of what to do next. Church started at nine and while he wouldn’t normally have gone, he knew Sam would want to go and Cas would be there, too. Maybe Dean could actually apologize.

 

No. Actually, he might be physically incapable of doing that.

 

Rather than return home right away, Dean chose to wander for a bit. It gave him time to clear his mind and think. Part of him thought that he’d be able to avoid Castiel for… well, forever. Of course, that was illogical, but if he _was_ going to run into his old friend, the Winchester thought that it would not have been so soon.

 

He thought about the last time that he’d seen Cas. It had been towards the end of their sophomore year of high school.


	3. Strange

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frustrated and confused, Dean goes to Cas’ apartment. What he sees is worse than anything he could have imagined, and he can’t help but feel a little guilty

Somehow, they were late to church. Dean wasn’t sure how they’d managed to do it, but they had. The two stragglers entered the church as quietly as possible, taking seats in the back pews and apologizing to the people already there for the disruption.

 

The cell phone’s alarm had woken Dean up at six— _in the morning!_ An ungodly hour that no living human should ever have to suffer! He had not even gone back to sleep; instead, he’d stayed up and actually put on a suit, because, dammit, he was going to look respectable! Yet somehow, _somehow_ , the brothers ended up getting to church late.

 

The day was starting out with a bang.

 

The service couldn’t have progressed any slower. Sam, a practiced church attendee, kept his head bowed, and repeated the prayers and hymns with ease. Dean, on the other hand, looked uncomfortable, awkward, and anxious. He stayed perfectly erect, head slowly rotating as his eyes searched the crowd for familiar faces—or, rather, familiar backs of heads. Sam elbowed him for this several times, especially when he was doing his Terminator-esque scan during prayer.

 

The older brother didn’t stop, though; forty-five minutes into service, he finally caught sight of someone he knew. It was a Novak, alright—a much older Novak with broad shoulders and a suspiciously serene expression on his face. Even with just a quarter of his face shown, Dean could identify the man as Michael. He was unmistakable. The green eyes examined those seated on either side of the man, but Dean quickly became confused.

 

One, two… No, no. Wait. One, two…

 

Were there really only two of them here? The only person next to Michael that could possibly have been a Novak was definitely not Cas. The person’s hair was a few shades lighter and much longer. Raphael? Gabriel? Their mother? It didn’t matter. What mattered was that Castiel wasn’t sitting with them. So then, where could he possibly be sitting?

 

When the closing prayers were said, an unintentionally loud sigh of relief came from Dean. Sam punched him in the shoulder, giving his brother an incredulous look. The only response he got, however, was a shrug before the green-eyed Winchester stood up, trying to peek over the crowd to catch sight of the Novak family.

 

They lingered at the back of the crowd, of course, conversing with the priests. Dean quickly realized that the person with Michael was, actually, Gabriel, and he couldn’t help but wonder if the kid was still getting in trouble and pulling pranks.

 

Once the crowd had thinned, Dean pushed to the front of the church, his brother a few steps behind him. When the others were just a few feet away, Michael turned around, offering Dean a large smile. In all honesty, it was creepy; it was like he’d just _felt_ the Winchesters approaching and knew they wanted to talk to him. Gabe noticed his brother’s sudden change in attention and followed suit, eyebrows raising as he saw who it was.

 

“Well, look at that! Some wild Winchesters appear!” he said, his comment followed by a grin.

 

Gabriel had certainly grown up these last few years. He was taller, but still pretty short (at least, shorter than Dean), and his hair had grown out a lot more. The young man’s chin was spotted with hair and there were small red dots, on his cheeks, probably shaving nicks. Golden eyes held a certain twinkle in them, as if mischievous plots were being hatched.

 

As the Winchesters and Novaks exchanged handshakes and smiles, Dean couldn’t help but notice how much older _Michael_ appeared. Looking at him now, he still felt like he was staring at a crooked car salesman or a sleazy lawyer, but it was much more refined. The older man was well-groomed and well-built. Pompousness saturated his stance, arrogance pouring off of him like cologne.

 

“It’s wonderful to see you,” Michael purred, looking at the two brothers before him. “What brings you back to Lawrence? I was under the impression that you weren’t coming back.”

 

Dean gave a thin-lipped smile, head tilting slightly. Maybe it was just because he had a natural distaste for the other, but he’d thought he had heard a malicious undertone in the words. Something that made it sound more like Michael was saying, “You’re back?”

 

“Yeah. I convinced Dad to let me bring Sammy back home so he can finish up school here. I thought it’d be better for him than having us move around to different schools all the time,” he replied smoothly, sounding rather matter-of-fact.

 

Michael smiled, nodding his head. “Oh! And how is John?”

 

The older Winchester raised his brows, a sneer curling his lips. As his mouth opened to answer, Sam shot him a look as if to say, “Remember: we’re in a church.” Before any words could leave Dean’s mouth, the younger man said, “Oh, he’s doing great. Lowson and Co. has been treating him well, but he’s still moving a lot.” He glanced up at his brother, eyebrows raising slightly.

 

“Oh, yeah. It’s been great,” Dean said with some obvious sarcasm. Clearing his throat, he went on to ask, “Anyway, where are the other two? Raphael and Cas still around?”

 

Sam could have sworn he caught something of panic in Gabriel’s eyes. Everyone’s gazes were on Michael, who did his best to hide any malicious feelings. The muscles in his cheeks twitched, his blue eyes narrowed, but the plastic smile stayed glued to his face.

 

“Raphael just started at John Hopkins University; he’s studying to become a biomedical engineer,” the snake-like man replied pleasantly. As he spoke of Cas, however, his voice strained slightly. “Castiel, however, has not attended a service in several years. He doesn’t have _time_ for anything like _this_.”

 

 Dean’s eyebrows shot upward, surprise written all over his face. “He…He hasn’t?” he asked, thinking he might have heard wrong. When Michael’s head barely shook, the young man swallowed hard. “Well, hey, could you, uh, could you tell me where he lives? I was hoping to catch up.”

 

Michael was silent. He licked his lips, cold eyes running over Dean. Gabriel still had a look of minor horror on his face, but he was now staring intently at the ground. Finally, the older Novak said, “Sure. Let me just write it down for you.” With sharp movements, he removed a pen and small pad of paper from a pocket hidden inside his jacket. After harshly scribbling the address on the top sheet, he ripped it off, offering it between two fingers like a cigarette. “I’m sure he’ll be so excited to see you.”

 

Dean copied the irritated smile and took the paper with a muttered “thank you.” After reading it a few times, he looked up at the three of them. “I think I’ll go pay him a visit now. Sammy, you know the way home, right?” he said, clasping his brother on the shoulder.

 

The younger boy nodded. Dean gave Gabriel and Michael a nod in goodbye, then left without another word. Watching him walk away, Sam let out a soft sigh, shaking his head. “Sorry about him. He’s been kind of stressed out and tired because of all the moving.”

 

Michael nodded, but his eyes had not left Dean yet. Only when the Winchester was out of sight did the snake-like man direct his attention to Sam. He hummed slightly to acknowledge that he’d heard what the boy had said.

 

“I’m glad to have you back, Sam,” he said. His smile had lightened slightly, faint on his lips. He clapped the boy on the shoulder, nodding. “Gabriel, I’ll be at home. I need to do some studying and take care of Mother.” Michael glanced at his long-haired brother, face blank. “Just… Don’t get into trouble.”

 

Sam watched him go, leaving the two high-schoolers alone in the church. Everyone had left except for a small handful. Sam and Gabe stood alone for a moment before the former broke the silence.

 

“Has Cas… really not been to church?” he questioned gently. Gabe let out a soft breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, he was pretty religious, right? Wasn’t he thinking about priesthood?”

 

The golden-eyed boy nodded, glancing up at the other. “Yeah, he was. I don’t know. After you guys hit the road…” he shrugged. “He just changed. He didn’t want to go to church. He stopped trying in school. Started trying drugs.” Gabriel glanced from side-to-side for a moment and then moved in. He reached up and grabbed the Winchester’s neck, pulling him down so that Sam was hunched over rather uncomfortably. “He started having a lot of sex, too—with _women_ ,” Gabe whispered, “To be honest, I always thought he played for the other team.” He resumed his normal position, letting out a light laugh when he saw Sam’s surprised face as he straightened. “What? Don’t tell me you didn’t see it?”

 

Sam just shook his head slightly. Of all the things that Gabe had just told him, _that_ was the least surprising. “No, it’s not that. It’s just… all of that’s pretty sad,” he admitted softly, perturbed.

 

Gabriel shrugged, the smile falling from his face. “It was bound to happen eventually. Mom got worse, too, so I guess it all just sort of cultivated into one big shit-storm.”

 

A moment of silence passed between them before Sam felt something buzzing in his pocket. He muttered an apology and pulled out the smart phone, looking at the few texts that were waiting for him. “Sorry, man. I gotta go. I’m meeting up with some friends up at the park,” said the boy, looking up at the other. “I’ll catch ya later.”

 

Gabe nodded when a thought struck him, and he quickly asked, “Hey! You’re going to be starting back at the high school, right? Sophomore? Junior?”

 

“Junior.”

 

There was a look on the older boy’s face that Sam couldn’t quite place. “Sweet. Well, then, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

 

Sam nodded, offering a soft, appeasing smile. “Yeah. See y’round.”

 

With their farewells expressed, Sam quickly left the church. Gabriel watched him only briefly before exiting the place himself. He’d rather spend as little time there as possible. Both boys, however, were thinking about the same thing: if Dean had made it to Castiel’s apartment, how was that going?

 

Truthfully? Awkward.

 

It’d been rather easy to find the shady and nearly crumbling building. Dean knew Lawrence pretty well, even if he hadn’t been there in a while. However, he still had to ask for a few directions, and if there was anywhere in the world that he didn’t want to pull over and talk to strangers, it was _here_. It had to be the shadiest neighborhood in the whole city—maybe even in all of Kansas. The crime-rate was through the roof. Every building reeked of sex, drugs, and violence. Prostitutes walked freely through the streets, and whenever Dean stopped at a light, they’d ask him if he was looking for some company.

 

Could this _really_ be where Cas lived?

 

Though he didn’t feel comfortable parking his precious Impala on the street, there were no other options. He muttered something like a prayer beneath his breath, hoping that his baby wouldn’t get broken into—or worse, _stolen_. He looked over the scrap of paper again, trying to make sure he was at the right place before he went inside. Sadly, he was.

 

He looked at the callbox for a moment, frowning, then pressed the button for apartment 26. Nothing happened, so he hit it again. Still nothing. One more time, again no response. A normal person probably would have turned around and high-tailed it out of there, but something told Dean that Cas _was_ home, without a doubt. Still, the door wasn’t about to open unless someone opened it for him.

 

He pressed the button for apartment 6, and waited. Finally, a young woman’s voice came over the intercom. “Hello? Who is it?”

 

“Yeah, hi. I’m really sorry about this, but I live in apartment 26, and I just _completely_ forgot my keys. Could you buzz me in?”

 

“Oh?” asked the other line, and then excitement tinged her voice. “You must be Cas’ new roommate!”

 

Roommate? The green-eyed man chuckled, shaking his head. “Yeah. Cas and I just started rooming together. Think you could let me in?”

 

“Sure, sure! Just a second.”

 

A few moments later, and Dean was inside. Well, that had been easier than he’d expected. Before he knew it, he was going up the stairs quickly, taking them two or three at a time. By the time that he’d reached the third floor, the man was out of breath, grabbing at a stitch in his side. Damn, he needed to get back into shape.

 

Apartment 26 wasn’t far from the stairs. Dean approached it, then grimaced at the smells that were slipping out from beneath the door. His nose twitched as he pounded his fist on the door. Was that… was that _pot_?

 

It took several urgent knocks to finally get someone to answer the damn door. Dean was taken aback when a pretty young blonde answered it, clad only in tight shorts and a bra. Her hair was messy and uncombed. Her brown eyes were stained red, bloodshot and slightly terrifying. Nonetheless, they unabashedly ran down the green-eyed man’s body, taking a moment to linger at his crotch.

 

“Well, hey there, sugar,” she purred, leaning against the door. Her eyes had come back up from between his legs and now she was staring intently at his lips. “What brings a nice thing like you ‘round here?”

 

Dean coughed into his hand, trying to keep his head straight. “I-I-I must have the wrong apartment,” he said, chuckling awkwardly. “I’m looking for Castiel Novak.”

 

She didn’t look surprised, but a smile spread over her red-painted lips. “Well, you’ve come to the right place,” she answered, her voice laced with seduction. “Cassy’s in the kitchen cooking something up for us. Would you like to join?”

 

She didn’t wait for his answer. Instead, she turned and made her way back inside. Her hips swung from side to side as she walked, and it was hard for Dean to keep his eyes from wandering south.

 

He came right inside, closing the door behind him. Immediately, he was choking on fumes of cigarette and marijuana smoke. The whole apartment had a fog settled in it, though it was still unable to conceal the mess of the place. There was just shit _everywhere_. Lots of clothes, it seemed, but for each item of clothing there was an empty bottle of alcohol. Some pill bottles were scattered here and there on the floor and, sure enough, there was a plate in the middle of the floor with a softly smoking joint on it.

 

His initial thought was, _You’ve gotta be kidding me_.

 

“Cassy! There’s some handsome devil here to see you!” The blonde’s voice rang through the air and he saw her making her way to what Dean guessed was the kitchen.

 

He followed slowly, wary of his surroundings. When he entered the kitchen, he thought he might have a fucking heart attack. There was another girl and this one clung to Castiel’s hips. Her hair was dark and curly, swept back from her face which was buried in his neck. Cas hummed soft murmurs of pleasure, the girl able to distract him from the griddle for just a moment. He didn’t let the pancake he was cooking burn, though, and it was soon on a plate, finishing a third short stack.

 

“Hey… Cas,” Dean said slowly, surveying the kitchen.

 

Dirty dishes were everywhere. There was some kind of grime coating most of the surfaces and Dean felt gross just standing in there. Sure, he wasn’t exactly a clean freak, but this? This was just nasty.

 

Castiel slowly turned his head toward the visitor. A wide, carefree grin came over his face. He reached up and stroked the dark-haired girl’s hair, encouraging her to pull away. She quickly stole a rough kiss, peeling back with a chuckle. He was dressed just as sparsely as the girls; all he wore was a thin pair of boxers. From what the visitor could see, there were bruises coating the blue-eyed man’s sides and barely visible red lines ran down his chest and back. 

 

He had a few more adornments to his body, too. The serpents still wound up his right arm, though Dean could now see their open, razor-toothed mouths. Two black wings had been inked to span the entirety of his back, the tips reaching down to Cas’ abnormally thin hips. The design was incredibly detailed, every feather meticulously sculpted. His eyes couldn’t help falling just between the young man’s hips, where a tiny ball of metal glimmered against his skin on either side.

 

“Why don’t you two grab your pancakes and head into the bedroom?” Cas asked, turning to look at the two women, “I’ll come in a minute.”

 

A huge smirk covered the dark-haired girl’s face, and she leaned into his ear. “Well, let’s hope it takes you longer than a minute,” she purred.

 

That only broadened Cas’ grin and made Dean feel increasingly uncomfortable. The girl (who only slightly more clothed than the blonde) grabbed two plates of pancakes and silverware before exiting the kitchen with the blonde. Her eyes wandered much like the one who’d answered the door, going up and down her body. In any other situation, Dean might have been turned on. But right now, he was in the apartment of a guy who used to be a saint, practically an angel, and that made everything awkward.

 

“Dean, it’s so good to see you,” Castiel slurred out. He grabbed the other plate, not bothering with silverware. His fingers pulled off a piece of the pancake, and Dean could’ve sworn he’d seen flecks of green in them. “Want some?”

 

The short-haired man was quick to reject the offer, pretty confident they were potcakes. He looked around a bit more, though, as if verifying that what he’s seeing was real. “Where were you this morning?” he finally asks. “I thought you said you were going to church.”

 

Cas snorted out a high-pitched giggle, and it caused Dean’s hair to stand on end. “You didn’t catch my sarcasm, Dean. Then you ran out so fast that I didn’t have a chance to clarify,” he smiled. He stuffed a piece of the drug-laced breakfast into his mouth, grimacing at the taste but swallowing nonetheless. “I don’t go to church anymore, Dean.”

 

Hearing those words from Cas makes the Winchester’s skin crawl. “Why? When’d you stop? I mean, you used to be pretty religious, so it’s kinda weird to see someone like you just _stop_ going.”

 

“After you left, I never went to church again,” the blue-eyed man nonchalantly answered. Another piece of the pancake was shoved into Cas’ mouth, muffling his voice as he spoke. “I though’ ‘ou’d be p‘oud o’ me. ‘ou neva belie’e’ in tha’ crap.”

 

“W-well I… I guess I don’t,” the visitor answered, speaking more softly now. Silence ensued for a moment, and something urged Dean to start asking questions. There was part of him that didn’t want his former best friend to head back to the bedroom with the girls (“ _sluts_ ” was probably a more appropriate term). “Who are those girls?”

 

Shrugging, Castiel couldn’t help but release some light chuckles. He swallowed before answering this time, saying, “The dark-haired girl is Meg. She comes by a few times a month. The blonde… Well, I really don’t know. I don’t even have the faintest clue.”

 

Dean gave a half-smile to appease the shaggy-haired young man. There’s a certain sadness in his gaze as he looked at the being in front of him. Every now and then, Cas would start to giggle for no reason. The taller man became thankful that he’d never really delved into drugs. Every few seconds, the Novak would start to laugh, but only in short bursts. He never laughed for too long.

 

He managed to calm himself down a little, at least enough to question, “How’d you get my address, anyway?”

 

Calloused fingers rubbed the back of his neck. “Your brother,” Dean answered simply.

 

Joy flowed over Cas’ face and he takes a few steps forward, nearly dropping his dish. “Gabriel? Was it Gabriel? He’s my favorite, you know. How is he? Is he still getting into trouble at school? I’m sure he is. He’s always been such a trickster, that kid.”

 

Dean shrugged slightly, replying, “Sorta. I mean, he was there, but, uh, no. It was Michael, actually.”

 

The high man’s face fell slightly, but he looked only slightly disconcerted. “Oh. I don’t like him,” he simply said. With that, another handful of pancake was shoved unceremoniously into his mouth. He giggled as he chewed, shaking his head. “You shoul’ reawy try one. Der di’gu’ting, but _‘o_ awe’ome.”

 

The short-haired brunette shook his head once more. “Nah, I’m good,” he said, giving a thin-lipped smile. “Well, uh, look. I should probably go. You seem pretty busy, and I don’t wanna… _interrupt_ anything.”

 

Castiel quickly shook his head. He put his plate down, not caring for the broken bits of his breakfast that rolled onto the muck-coated counter. “No, no, no! No, man, you should stay! Don’t leave. Just stay for a little while.”

 

There was some kind of concealed urgency in his voice, some slight panic in his eye that Dean was just able to catch. Then again, maybe he was just imagining it. Maybe this was just Cas wanting to hang out. After all, weed was supposed to keep a person pretty stable and content, right?

 

“I-I shouldn’t,” he replied, one side of his lips crinkling up.

 

The blue-eyed man’s eyebrows twitched slightly, lips pulling tight into an almost-frown. “Well, can we at least hang out? We could get dinner, or something! It’ll be just like old times—except with more booze.”

 

For a moment, Dean swore he could see something of his old friend in this tattooed stranger that stank of drugs. If he could get past the bloodshot eyes and the stench of marijuana, he could almost see the big-eyed, naïve, optimistic kid he used to know. He could hear the soft strains of hope in Cas’ voice. He noticed how the man’s eyebrows raised, and his mouth stayed just slightly parted, waiting for an answer.

 

And he couldn’t say no.

 

“Yeah,” he replied, nodding. “Why don’t I… Why don’t I come pick you up at six and you can come by and see the place?”

 

Castiel had a huge grin on his face, and it shoved a dagger in Dean’s heart.

 

“Okay. I’ll be here. I’ll be ready,” he said, nodding. He heard the girls calling to him from the bedroom. When he looked towards where their voices come from, however, disinterest was nestled on his face.

 

“Alright, well, I’ll let you, Meg, and Blondie enjoy your, uh… _breakfast_. I’ll be back in a couple hours to pick you up. Okay?”

 

He watched as Cas gave an enthusiastic nod. Dean returned it, though more subtly, then said a quick goodbye before leaving the apartment. He walked quickly down the stairs, and it didn’t strike him until he’s sitting in the forty-year-old Impala that he had never asked about the “new roommate” thing. Well, not like it mattered.

 

Dean sat for several minutes in the silent car. His hands gripped the steering wheel, but the engine was off. Moss-colored eyes stared straight ahead, blank, no emotion registering in them as he tried to figure what it is exactly that he was feeling.

 

_After you left, I never went to church again._

 

The words rang in his head. He couldn’t help but feel that that was his fault. Hell, he’d be a fool to try and say it wasn’t. But there were other factors, too… Right? There was Cas’s dad, his mom, the kids at school. He wasn’t the sole reason that his best friend had stopped attending church. Just like he couldn’t be the sole reason that Cas turned into… _that_.

 

He pushed it back. Maybe Cas would act a little more normal when he came over later. Not allowing any more thought on the matter, he pushed the key in the ignition, the initial roar of the car sending a strangely soothing sensation through him. He drove home with the music blaring more loudly than usual.

 

He didn’t understand why he’d gone to Cas’ place. Just yesterday, he had been determined to do everything possible to avoid him. Perhaps that was because he thought that his old friend would have acted so much differently. Like Sam, Dean had also expected the crying-and-punching reaction, but what he’d gotten was a polite—albeit stoned—guy who was civil and apparently really wanted to see him.

 

It made Dean think that maybe things could go back to normal. Maybe they could be friends again and pretend he’d never left.

 

The image of the thin man he’d seen in that apartment flashed through the Winchester’s brain.

 

But he’d changed so much since they’d last seen one another. Castiel was nothing like the friend Dean’d had so many years ago. It was like some kind of evil, opposite twin in there, one that sometimes shared quirks and facial expressions with the real thing.

 

There was just no way that that was really his best friend.


	4. Micro Cuts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps playing a drinking game and getting drunk wasn't the best idea in the world

Everybody liked Sam. How could they not? He was a nice kid and smart, though he could be a little nerdy sometimes. Overall, though, he was a good guy with lots of friends. Dean had never been so thankful for that as he was now.

 

It was easy enough to convince his brother to stay out with his friends for a bit. He really didn’t want Sam and Cas to be in the same building together, let alone the same _room_. He wasn’t afraid of them fighting or anything; Dean just didn’t know what to expect of his old friend. At this point, he wouldn’t be surprised if the guy came over and offered the little Winchester a joint.

 

Once Sam had left, the older brother spent the next several hours roaming the tiny apartment, cleaning, and hiding the beer. It probably wouldn’t matter. It wasn’t like Castiel’s apartment was the epitome of cleanliness. _He’ll probably be so high, he won’t even notice_ _if there was fucking slime dripping down the walls,_ Dean thought somewhat bitterly _._ Hiding the beer undoubtedly wasn’t necessary, either. From the looks of things, his old friend kept himself in a constant drug or alcohol-induced stupor—at least when he wasn’t working.

 

As Dean prepared his home, he tried to avoid confronting the pang of guilt in his gut. The cleaning distracted him well enough, classic rock and static blasting from the small stereo on the kitchen counter. By the time five o’ clock rolled around, everything had been scrubbed eight times, and the bottles of alcohol had traveled from the front of the fridge to the back behind the bottles of pop to the cupboard to beneath the sink. The Chinese food had been ordered (it wasn’t like Dean could actually cook). There was nothing else to do, but wait.

 

Before the shame brought itself to the forefront of his brain, Dean grabbed the keys to the Impala and headed out. He’d get to Cas’ forty-five minutes early, but that’d be okay. He wasn’t about to just sit around here and think about how his friend didn’t go to church anymore and was covered in tattoos and smoked pot and had sex and how it was all probably Dean’s fault.

 

He pulled up to the building. For a few moments, he was able to sit silently in the car, the faint sounds of Metallica floating from the speakers. But he found that he couldn’t even take that. Before he knew what he was doing, Dean went to the front stoop and called apartment 26.

 

“Hello?” The answer had come surprisingly quick, perhaps two seconds after Dean had pressed the call button.

 

The Winchester looked surprised, glancing about for a moment before clearing his throat. “Hey. It’s Dean. Sorry, I’m here kinda—“

 

“I’ll be right down.”

 

 _Oh_. The brunette frowned, then shrugged it off. He only needed to wait a minute before an out-of-breath Castiel was pushing the door open, three huge bottles of alcohol cradled in his arms. They flashed each other smiles, Dean still surprised by how fast the response had been. His friend looked a little more sober now. His blue eyes appeared less bloodshot, and the smell of cinnamon signaled that he’d gotten a shower. Dark hair, still damp, stuck to his forehead and around his ears. The scent of whiskey on his breath was only slightly covered by a minty toothpaste. He was even dressed well, with dark jeans and a loose button-up top that made him almost presentable.

 

“I brought drinks!” Cas grinned, moving his shoulders in attempted gesture towards his arms.

 

Dean raised his head slightly, a dubious smirk on his face. “Uh… Great. That’s a lot of booze for two people, though, don’t you think?”

 

They walked back to the car, Castiel right at his friend’s heels. “What? Don’t tell me you can’t hold your liquor anymore?” he asked, the corner of his lips twitching up teasingly.

 

He opened the car door with some difficulty, and Dean watched amusedly and without offering help. When his friend was finally in the car, the brunette softly chuckled and climbed into the driver’s seat.

 

“Of course I can. Historically, though, _you_ haven’t been able to sip a friggin’ martini without getting trashed.”

 

The engine roared to life and the passenger settled the three bottles in his lap. He leaned back, adjusting the seat so that he’d be comfortable. After a good stretch, he put his hands behind his neck, staring ahead as Dean carefully pulled out into the street.

 

Cas shrugged, forehead wrinkling as he grimaced slightly. “Time changes people, I guess.”

 

To avoid conversation on the way to his home, Dean turned up the radio, Blue Oyster Cult filling the silence. Dean was shocked to hear the passenger’s voice join his own and Eric Bloom’s. Had Castiel— _Castiel_ —really just started singing to BOC?

 

“ _Come on baby, don’t fear the reaper, baby take my hand, don’t fear the—_ Dean!”

 

The driver slammed down on the brakes, eyes wide as he saw that he’d almost rear-ended the guy ahead of him. For almost ten seconds, he’d been staring at the bobbing head of his friend, singing to a song that Dean had never thought the guy would have known in a million years. Now, he took a steadying breath, knuckles white as he gripped the steering wheel.

 

“Fuck,” he whispered, shaking his head.

 

The rest of the drive, he didn’t look at Cas once.

 

When they got to the apartment, the dark-haired young man placed the bottles of alcohol on the kitchen island. After locking the door, Dean walked over to them, picking one up to examine it. Vodka, strawberry rum, and tequila. _Interesting combo_ , he thought, placing the bottle of rum back down. Castiel was already making himself at home, grabbing two glasses from the cabinet and rooting around the fridge.

 

“No fruit juice? How am I supposed to make a proper drink?” he tsked, head half in the refrigerator. He closed the door with a sigh, straightening back up. “Well, looks like we’ll have to take it straight.”

 

He brought the cups over, filling each half with rum and half with tequila. Glancing up at Dean, the young man let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head.

 

“When you’re a bartender and all your friends are bartenders, it’s pretty easy to get this stuff,” he said, answering the other’s look.

 

He capped a bottle and handed a glass to his friend. Dean tentatively took it, taking a sip. It wasn’t too terrible, but definitely strong. Even if he _could_ hold his alcohol pretty well, it would still only take a few glasses before he was out of his head. Cas seated himself at one of the old barstools in front of the island, and Dean took his place beside him.

 

“So, Dean. It’s been a long time since we’ve spoken to each other,” the blue-eyed man said. His voice had lost all of its previous lightness, having become somber.

 

Dean stared purposefully at the sink a few feet in front of him. Castiel stared at the fridge, eyes shifting every few seconds to look at Dean. It was hard to assess the mood of the quietness. They each felt it was like that awkward, tense silence that ensues on a bad first date, when neither person knows what to talk about. Cas was able to find some comfort in it, though, even if it was hidden beneath mountains of awkward.

 

The Winchester was still trying to get used to the deepness of his friend’s voice, which had changed so much from their middle school days. Something familiar in the tone, however, seemed to bring him a bit of comfort, and his posture relaxed just slightly.

 

“Yeah, it has,” he agreed, still refusing to look at Cas. He took a slow drink before his eyes went to his cup. For a moment, he contemplated apologizing. That idea was wiped clear of his mind quickly, though. Things were going well so far; it’d be best not to mess it up. “It’s good to see you, though. Hell, I thought…” His words drifted off. What could he say? “I thought I’d never see you again.”

 

He cleared his throat, then finally forced himself to turn and face his friend. “I thought you’d have gotten out of this place. You always talked about how much you hated it here,” he offered with a sad smile.

 

A low, grim chuckle trembled in the other young man’s throat. He grinned and shook his head, matching Dean’s gaze. “I thought I’d have left, too. But when my grades went to shit…” He stopped himself, before going on to say, “Let’s make it a drinking game.”

 

The complete turn in conversation left the green-eyed man briefly confused. He blinked a few times and shook his head, body expressing his sudden confusion.

 

“Let’s…Wait, what?”

 

“A drinking game,” the other responded easily. “We take turns asking questions. Before you answer, you have to take a drink. If you don’t want to answer a question, you take two. If you repeat a question that’s already been asked, you take three. Sound good?”

 

Dean sniffed and shook his head. “Alright,” he chuckled, still not sure what had brought this on. “Why not?”

 

The thin man reached across and grabbed the bottle of rum. He refilled Dean’s glass with a devious smile, and then said, “That’s one drink for you, Dean.”

 

They went back and forth with trivial, superficial inquiries. Shit like “What’s your favorite color?” or “Who’s your favorite rock group?” That went on for almost an hour before they began to run out of safe questions and tact. Many answers had cropped up conversation and old memories, which they’d emphatically recall for the other.

 

The game started with the rum, which had a relatively low alcohol level (Thank God, because they’d already gone through the whole damn bottle). Dean was starting to feel the buzz, the strange sensations in his limbs. It’d take more than that to get him drunk, though. Tequila was the next thing to fill Dean’s glass, and a sniff told him that it was definitely stronger. He kept eying the huge bottle of vodka, though. If they managed to get to that without their livers exploding, it was going to burn his throat like a son of a bitch.

 

“Hmm…Question…” Castiel closed his eyes, humming slightly as he tried to think of something. It was obvious that he’d begun to feel good, too, just by the way smiles would randomly flicker onto his lips. “What’s the worst sex you’ve ever had?”

 

Dean gave a devious grin, shaking his head and laughing. He took a shot, then gave a shrug. “I don’t know about you, but _I_ don’t have bad sex.”

 

Incredulous, Cas dropped his jaw and punched Dean in the arm. “You fucking liar… Come on, Dean Winchester, sexpert, _must_ have had _some_ bad sex in his life.”

 

Green eyes shone brightly, pink lips spreading into a big grin. He glanced down at his cup and filled the bottom with tequila again. “There was this time in Oakland… Me and this girl were in the supply closet at the high school. Let’s just say she was _very_ inexperienced, and after fifteen minutes, just as she started getting excited, her damn _dad_ opens the door. Did I mention her dad was also the superintendent? Good for me, we were moving the next day, anyway. Boy, was that awkward.”

 

The dark-haired man shook his head, still laughing quietly. “Your intelligence astounds me, Dean.”

 

They both took a moment to let their giggles die out. The Winchester didn’t make any more comments on the situation, just asked, “What about you? What’s been your best sex?”

 

Somehow, Castiel’s smile managed to grow even bigger. He took a drink, and opened his mouth like he was going to answer. Instead, he filled his cup again and took another drink.

 

“No! Oh, come on, Cas!” Dean cried, slamming his open palms on the island and his face disbelieving, “Not cool! I tell you about my worst, but you won’t even tell me about your _best_? What is this? That is… That is more than a fair trade!”

 

The man just shook his head, giving his friend his best shit-eating grin. “Sorry. Besides, I don’t think it’d be your kind of thing, anyway. _My turn_.” He filled his glass again. “Lessee… What… You do alcohol, right?”

 

“Yes, Cas. I’d say I, uh, _do_ alcohol,” he replied, amused.

 

“What about drugs? You ever try anything? You ever dance with Mary Jane or pop some PCP?”

 

The words had a somewhat sobering effect on Dean. He cleared his throat and turned slightly in his chair, so that he wasn’t completely facing Cas anymore. “Nah. Booze is one thing, but drugs? That shit can mess you up bad,” he said after his shot, the last trace of a smile disappearing from his face. He didn’t let the silence linger between them too long, however. Before Cas could argue that heroin was the single best thing out there, Dean asked, “So… How many women have you slept with?”

 

Cas took a shot.

 

“Total? Only like… Huh, I’m not sure. A hundred, maybe?”

 

  1. Violent choking noises fought their way out of Dean’s mouth. The mere absurdity of the words   left him gagging on his own saliva. A few hits to the chest and he was coughing, trying to get air back into his lungs and ignore the fact that Castiel was losing his mind to laughter.



 

“H-h-h…A _hundred_?” He looked to his friend, who was laughing so hard his face was red (or perhaps his face was red from the alcohol; it was hard to tell). “Cas, there’s… There’s _no way_.”

 

It took a moment, but the man was able to calm himself down enough to answer. “It’s true! I mean, obviously some girls are regulars. Meg and I have been fucking for almost a year now, and she keeps me stocked with the prescription pills. It’s really hard to keep track of all the people you fuck, though. I mean, they’re coming in and out all the time, y’know? Can’t possibly remember all those faces.”

 

The doorbell rang. Waves of relief washed over Dean as he stood up. “That must be the food,” he said, pulling his wallet from his pocket.

 

As he paid the delivery person, the young man took a moment to regret ever having asked that question. Not only was hearing Cas use “fuck” as a verb friggin’ weird as hell, hearing him talk about having sex with _one hundred_ women was just flat out ridiculous. He brought over the stereotypical red and white boxes, dropping one in front of Cas with a pair of plastic-wrapped chopsticks.

 

“We’re eatin’ fancy tonight,” he grunted, then sat down beside his friend again.

 

He took a moment to note that he _was_ getting drunk. The alcohol was going to his head, and he couldn’t fathom being awake long enough to take on the full bottle of vodka that was still waiting for them. Cas eagerly tore into the Chinese food, eating it quickly and occasionally giving little groans of pleasure due to how good the food was. Honestly, the sounds made Dean uncomfortable, but he was too busy stuffing his own face and trying not to think about Cas sleeping with every woman within a five-block radius.

 

They were quiet while they ate, both enraptured by the surprisingly delicious take-out. Dean made a note in his brain that said he’d have to order it again. He pulled the chopsticks apart, then fitted them in his hand before going to grab at some of the noodles in his box. Apparently, the utensils were drunk-proof, because every time he attempted to pull up a noodle, it’d slide right out of his grasp.

 

Cas watched out of the corner of his eye. His box was hugged to his chest, right below his chin, and he was shoveling rice and chicken into his mouth like it was the easiest thing in the world. Trying to hold back some giggles, the visitor focused his gaze on the contents of his container. Blue eyes continued to flick up to watch, though, holding amusement.

 

“Dammit!” Dean cried, slamming the paper box onto the island.   
  


He sat there for a moment, frustrated, not looking at the glob of noodles and vegetables that had just landed in his lap. He grabbed a napkin and started picking them off his lap, muttering something offensive below his breath. Castiel began to snicker, bowing his head for a moment to hide his face. When he looked up, it was with innocent enjoyment at the situation.

 

“You’re a dumbass,” he pointed out.

 

Green eyes narrowed, Dean went and grabbed a plastic fork out of one of the kitchen drawers. When he sat back down, his friend raised his eyebrows.

 

“Plasticware, Dean?”

 

“Yes, _plasticware_. You don’t have to clean it, and you can just throw it away and buy more when you’re done.”

 

Cas nodded slightly, still smiling. The rest of the meal was had in silence, with the visitor’s blue eyes curiously looking at Dean every few seconds. If the other noticed, he didn’t let on. When the empty boxes and utensils were thrown away, the game began again as the two filled their glasses.

 

“My turn to ask a question,” said the guest, rolling his cup between his hands. The smile barely lingered on his face, and he stared ahead. A new attitude had fallen over him. He opened his mouth, but closed it as he thought better of what he’d wanted to ask. “Where are you going to be working, now that you’re back?”

 

“Singer Salvage Yard. Bobby’s an old friend of my dad, so I’m going to be working for him, fixing up cars, that kind of crap,” he replied after a shot, beginning to sound a little inebriated.

 

“Bobby Singer… He’s a good man. I wouldn’t want to _work_ for him, though.”

 

“A job’s a job, right?” Dean shrugged. “Anyway, on my way up to your apartment earlier, someone said that you were getting a new roommate. What’s that about? Do Meg and Blondie not live with you?”

 

Cas shook his head. “No, the girls don’t. Rent’s starting to creep up, so I thought I might as well get a roommate. You remember Uriel, don’t you? From school?”

 

Green eyes squinted in disgust, a matching sound leaving the man’s throat. “That jackass? Yeah, I know him. Can’t see him living in your neighborhood, though. Dude’s got a righteous stick up his ass, doesn’t he?”

 

“Yes, I guess you could say that,” Castiel chuckled. “He actually volunteered. Said he wants to ‘set me’… heh, ‘set me straight’!” Suddenly he was laughing hysterically, but there was no joy in it, only a sick, grim amusement. “Imagine!” He shook his head again, then took his appropriate drink.

 

Dean found the laughter unsettling. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, gripping his cup like a safety blanket.

 

“But I don’t think I’ll be taking him in… I don’t need him chasing away every hot piece of ass and new underground drug that comes to my doorstep.”

 

The man’s blue eyes sparkled for a moment as he stretched out his limbs. The grim smile suddenly dropped from his face and he turned to look at Dean directly. He cocked his head to the side, his forehead wrinkling slightly as he tensed his brow.

 

There was that guilt, again, beating against Dean’s skull. This man, who was practically a stranger now, was suddenly the spitting image of what he’d used to be: a curious, innocent teenager. But there was something added to it. It wasn’t just genuine, lighthearted interest coating his face; there was something darker there that the Winchester couldn’t place.

 

“Over five years have passed… What is the best thing that’s happened to you since then? I’m sure… I’m sure that good things’ve happened to you…So what was the best?”

 

Dean suddenly looked confused. He turned to face his friend, obviously not understanding why this question was being asked. He couldn’t take staring at those eyes, though, those ocean-colored hues that bore into his soul like tiny, shame-inducing drills. Taking a shot distracted him for a moment, allowed him a moment to think.

 

“I…I don’t know,” he admitted, gaze locked on the sink again. “Really, nothing great has happened. Same shit, different places. I guess the best thing that’s happened to me… Well, I guess the best thing that’s happened to me is movin’ back here.”

 

The visitor’s face didn’t change. For a moment, Dean thought that he’d fallen asleep, but Castiel slowly reached across and refilled the man’s glass. A soft sigh and the brunette drank.

 

“So…” he cleared his throat. Dean ran a hand through his hair and over his eyes. His vision was swimming. His limbs were tingling. He could barely keep a thought. “You said your grades went down? What exact—“

 

The two men turned in unison as the front door opened. Cas’ brows raised slightly, and the edges of his lips twitched up. Emerging from the doorway, Sam gave a sheepish smile, waving. The other Winchester looked ready to have a heart attack, glancing back and forth between the other two in the room. Finally, he jumped to his feet, almost falling down in the process. His brother smirked and shook his head.

 

“You two having fun?” he asked, gaze flickering between the two. He took a few steps into the room, slightly uneasy as he looked at the visitor. “Hey, Cas. It’s been awhile… You look… You look good.”

 

The man snickered in response, but didn’t attempt to get off of his stool. “You look good, too, Sam. Are you doing well in school?”

 

“Oh… Y-yeah, doing great. Actually, I—“

 

“Sammy, why don’t you head on over to your room? School starts tomorrow, and we want to make sure you get plenty of sleep!” Dean chirped.

 

He stumbled over to his brother, clasping a hand on the boy’s shoulder with a sloppy grin. The younger Winchester rolled his eyes, pushing Dean away.

 

“You’re drunk,” he stated simply, but walked towards his bedroom anyway. “You two behave. Dean, I don’t want to hold your hand and clean up your vomit tomorrow.”

 

The words were accentuated with the shutting of his door. Dean took in a deep breath, then frowned. “Bitch,” he muttered. He staggered back to his seat and sighed, shaking his head. “Ugh, who’s turn is it?” he groaned, rubbing his face.

 

“You’re asking me ‘bout my grades,” Cas replied pleasantly, speech slightly slurred.

 

“Oh… Right,” he nodded, knitting his eyebrows together. “So, why’d your grades go down? I mean, you’ve always been a smart guy.” He turned to look at Cas, searching for some kind of sign on his face.

 

The other remained impassive, however. “It just wasn’t for me. I was dealing with a lot of shit, and school seemed like just the biggest waste of time.” He brushed his hands through his newly dried hair, tufts sticking out from his head in all directions. He took his drink, then sat momentarily in thought. “What’s the first dream you ever remember having?”

 

Flashes of fire danced in Dean’s head. He swallowed hard at the question, mind immediately removed from analyzing the answer he’d be given. Two shots were taken, accompanied by a soft moan.

 

“Damn, this stuff’s strong,” he muttered, trying to ignore the corrosive stare he was receiving. “So, ah… So…” He needed a question. Needed one quick to stop Cas from giving him that _damn_ look. “What happened between you and Michael? At church, he seemed pretty ticked off at just the mention of you.”

 

Well, that certainly changed the man’s expression. His countenance was quickly overcome with a bitter disgust, and he quickly shook his head. Cas took a quick drink, the shot glass being slammed a little violently back onto the plastic counter.

 

“He kicked me out of the house. Told me that if I ever showed my face at his doorstep again, he’d…” Something caught in his throat, but he hid it with a fierce scowl. “That bastard won’t even let me see my little brother. Says I’ll ‘taint him’ or some bullshit like that. Michael is…He’s just…”

 

He breathed in sharply through his nose, a sign that Dean recognized from being childhood friends to mean that he might start crying.

 

“Hey, hey! It’s okay, man,” he said, putting a hand on his friend’s shoulder. He could feel the sharp bones of his shoulder sticking through his skin, a gross reminder of how thin Castiel had become. Dean frowned, a torn look on his face. “Who needs him, right? I’ve never liked him, anyway. He’s always come off like a sleazy politician.”

 

The other man sniffed and took in a deep breath. “I don’t need him. That’s for sure.” He glanced up, noticing that the rum was a little over half gone. He grabbed the bottle of vodka and used that, instead, to refill his cup. “What about your father? Y’been able to sort out your differences at all?”

 

Drink. Shudder. Close eyes. “Heh. Well, ’m livin’ here, aren’t I? I only got to leave with Sammy, ‘cause I was able to bug the shit out of Dad. He’s pro’bly thankful we’re out of his hair, now.”

 

The visitor nodded in understanding. “You don’t need him. You’ve always been able to take care of your brother by yourself.”

 

Dean smirked and shook his head. Wasn’t _that_ the truth! The next question flowed easily out of his mouth, on his mind since the moment his friend had spoken. “Cas…What’d Michael _say_ to you?”

 

No answer. Two shots.

 

Silence again. It seemed that every shot multiplied the silent guilt stewing in Dean’s belly. He glared at his hands, fiddling with his thumbs. The noiselessness dragged on forever, slowly clawing at Dean’s thoughts, trying to force him into apologizing. Unfortunately, he didn’t even need to bring it up.

 

“Why didn’t you ever tell me you were leaving?” The voice that asked was soft and scared.

 

Cas turned his entire body to face Dean, and the Winchester thought that he was suddenly incredibly, uncomfortably close. He could feel the heat of his friend’s stare digging into his face, searching for any semblance of an answer. The green eyes didn’t dare to try to meet the gaze, either. He couldn’t handle that. So, instead, he took a drink, then began pouring his second.

 

“ _No_.”

 

Castiel grabbed the bottle in Dean’s hand and slammed it back down. They were forced to look at one another, and everything expressed in the dark-haired man’s face was everything that Dean had feared: confusion, desperation, resentment, and, most of all, _hurt_.

 

“You can’t skip out on this question, Dean. I deserve an answer, and you’re going to give it to me.”

 

The low and angry tone rattled him, shook him to his core. He tore away his gaze and stood, trying to pace in order to put his thoughts back in order. He wasn’t prepared this. No matter how often he’d thought about this same question, he’d never been able to formulate a good answer in his brain.

 

“I don’t know,” he answered hoarsely.

 

“You don’t _know_?” Cas asked after a moment, skeptical. He stood up very slowly, taking a few steps towards Dean. “ _You don’t know_? What kind of, of fucking _bullshit answer_ is that? ‘I don’t know’? You just left me on a whim? Is that it?” his voice snarled.

 

Suddenly, Dean was angry, too. He turned to the other man and crossed his arms over his chest. He growled, “It wasn’t like that.”

 

“Oh, it wasn’t? Well, please, enlighten me with all of your Winchesterian wisdom!”

 

The tone caused Dean’s lip to twitch into a brief snarl.

 

“I was just a scared kid, Cas. I was _afraid_.”

 

“Afraid of what? Of getting your best friend’s phone number so you could call him every once in awhile? Or getting his email so that you could drop him a message?”

 

 “No! I don’t know. It was just…It was dumb, okay? But can we just get past that for a moment and focus on _you_? What the hell happened to you, Cas? You used to be super religious. You wanted to go to Harvard and become a doctor, but now look at you! You’re covered in…in tattoos and booze and sex! You’re nothing like what you used to be. Now you’re just a…a… _this!_ ” He used one hand to gesture at the other’s full body.

 

A deep scowl came over Castiel’s face. His eyes, which had been so soft just minutes ago, were full of drunken anger. With an incoherent yell, he attempted a hard punch at the green-eyed man’s jaw, which was easily avoided. Soon, though, Cas was right in his old friend’s face, so close that their breaths mingled, and Dean could feel the heat radiating off of Cas’ body.

 

“You _left_ me, Dean,” he hissed, the smell of alcohol flooding the other’s nose. “When Dad left, I was okay. When Mom started drinking, I was still okay. I had another family I could go to— _your_ family. And then you left, and then all this shit with Michael calling me an ‘abomination’ and ‘a disgrace to life,’ and you know who I had to talk to about it? _No one_. Not a single _fucking_ person. You promised me that you would always be there for me, that you were my best friend and would be the _one goddamn person_ in my life that wouldn’t walk out of it. So, how was I supposed to feel when you just up and left without a word?”

 

The brunette’s voice was choked, and Dean could see that he was on the verge of tears again. The guilt thudded in him again, and he had to look around, look anywhere but at the face of the broken mess in front of him. Cas wouldn’t allow that, though. He advanced quickly, grabbing Dean by the front of his shirt and shoving him into the wall of the living room. Rough hands grabbed Cas’ wrists, but the enraged did nothing to try to remove them. He just stood there, chest heaving with breath and eyes filled with what must have been hate.

 

“You were… my _best friend_ , Dean,” he whispered. His voice was trembling, drained of anger and replaced with anguish. “When you left, I was completely alone, in every sense of the word. I got kicked out of my house and had not a single place to go. You left me with no one. And you know what? I will _never_ forgive you for that.”

 

With a harsh shove, Castiel took a few steps back, roughly brushing away a few tears that had managed to escape his misty eyes. He stared at the one on whom he’d once relied on for everything. The one that used to comfort him and tell him, “Things will get better. It sucks now, but you still got me.” With that thought in mind, the drunk, shaggy-haired man turned and stumbled out the door. Dean leaned against the wall for a few seconds, flinching at the sound of the door slamming shut. When he couldn’t take it anymore, he slid down to the floor and buried his head in his hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty sure my beta is beginning to hate me. At the end of editing this chapter, she types:  
> "Hey  
> Hey, Paige  
> FUCK YOU, YOU SADIST."
> 
> And after I told her, "I see you liked the ending of the chapter! I, personally, liked the phrase "a disgrace to life," she so eloquently replied, "THAT WAS 12 PAGES OF SADISM. YOU BITCH. UGH."
> 
> not even mad


	5. Nowhere Fast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gabriel disappears for a few days. When Sam finds out why, he knows there's going to be trouble.

“No, Sammy. I don’t want to talk about it.”  
  
“But Dean—“  
  
“ _I don’t want to talk about it_.” Dean tried his best to keep his voice even, to keep all irritation out of his voice, but it was hard. Especially when Sam kept pounding him with questions about last night.  
  
Sam frowned, looking disappointed that his brother wouldn’t just talk about it. They didn’t say anything for the rest of the morning. They got dressed. They ate. They left. Dean dropped Sam off at school, then drove to Singer Automotive. When Dean arrived at the old junk heap, he was greeted with a smile from the store’s namesake, Bobby Singer.  
  
As work got started, they made small talk. The two had been very close before the Winchesters had left. Hell, Dean felt like Bobby had acted more like their dad than John. He could remember a few memories where, instead of making them do their homework, Bobby would take them outside to throw a ball around for a bit. The memory would resurface every couple hours, just by accident, and it would make the young man smile to himself as he twisted bolts and metal.  
  
Singer Automotive surrounded Bobby’s house, so at lunchtime, Dean went inside and made himself at home with a beer and a sandwich. He and Bobby continued to chat and catch up, though the green eyes kept flickering up to the television.  
  
If there was one thing Dean WInchester hated, it was news channels. The only stories they had to talk about were depressing. For instance, the semi-attractive female reporter (she was a six) was talking about massive earthquakes in East Asia that left houses and lives destroyed. Then she talked about how a pedestrian had been struck by a car last night and was in serious condition. Then she talked about an apartment building catching on fire on the West Side. Then she talked about a man being charged with murder of a seven-year-old child. Then, then, then, then, _then_. Dean wondered how anyone could watch the news in the morning and then head off to work feeling good about life.  
  
He was glad to hear that Bobby had been doing well these past few years. The man’s business was just staying afloat so that he could pay the utility bills. He’d picked up hunting and gone out with his best friend Rufus a few times. That bit of news made Dean thankful that they weren’t the type of people to call up the taxidermist and cover the walls in moose heads.  
  
Of course, the usual questions about his dad came up, but Bobby didn’t ask too much about it. Dean was certainly thankful for that. Instead, the old man asked questions about the brothers, where they were living, and what they’d done since they’d got there. The Winchester didn’t mention Cas. He didn’t want to go down that road. So, he just talked about how Sam had been spending a lot of time with his friends and how they’d gone to church.  
  
“ _You_ went to church?” Bobby asked, brows raising beneath his battered truck hat.  
  
Dean chuckled, shrugging. “Yeah, I know. Sam wanted to go, and I decided I might as well go, too.”  
  
Bobby gave him a strange look, but made no other comment about it. They were both quiet for a moment, watching the detailed report on the car accident. Dean grew steadily more uncomfortable with the graphic news coverage.  
  
“Yeah, we, uh, we saw the Novaks while we were at church, too.”  
  
Bobby sniffed, shaking his head. “You did, huh?” he asked, a sort of pity on his face. “That family’s got a boatload o’ problems weighin’ on them.”  
  
“That’s what I’ve heard,” replied the younger man. He did his best to keep the curiosity out of his voice. “I didn’t see Castiel there, though. Or Raphael. D’you know what happened to them?”  
  
The mechanic just rolled his eyes. “What _didn’t_ happen to them? I think that Raphael kid’s up in college. As far as Cas, I’m not sure. He got into some bad stuff. I guess Michael didn’t like it, kicked him out. Sad, though,” he answered, shaking his head. After a moment, he added, “You two used to be thick as thieves.”  
  
Dean swallowed the rising lump in his throat, now preferring to stare at the wreckage of a car than his uncle. “Yeah… I guess we just didn’t talk much after I moved.”  
  
Nodding, Bobby took a slow sip of his beer. “It happens. It’s a shame, though. I think that kid needed someone like you around to keep him out of trouble.” The older man let out a grim laugh and smirked. “You know it’s bad when I think _you’d_ keep someone in line.”  
  
“Hey! I was a good kid,” he responded defensively. His response was a bit weak, though, and he chose to focus instead on the news story.  
  
The man who’d been struck by the car was in critical condition. The car clipped the man, swerved, then went straight into a telephone pole. The driver had sustained minor injuries. Dean grimaced as they showed shots from last night, pictures of the damaged car, and he could’ve sworn he saw blood stains on the ground.  
  
Standing up, he muttered, “I hate the news.”  
  
He set his empty beer bottle on the table, then headed out the door. Might as well distract himself with work. It’s not like there was anything else worth thinking about.  
\-------  
Sam entered his first period looking more perturbed than excited. His friends quickly took notice, but he just responded that his brother was acting strange--which he was. Last night had just been a mess. Of course, the young Winchester had been woken up by the yelling. When he’d finally gotten the courage to venture out into the living room, he found his brother sitting on the floor, hands covering his head.  
  
As usual, Dean hadn’t wanted to even breathe a word of what had occurred. At all.  The only thing he would say is that he and Cas had a fight, and Cas had left. No matter how much pestering Sam did, his brother wouldn’t give any details. It finally ended with Dean yelling at him to go back to sleep, so that’s what he’d done.  
  
He did _not_ get much sleep last night.  
  
He was able to get his mind off of it in homeroom, but then second period rolled around. Of course, Gabriel Novak was in his Advanced Placement English class. And his AP Calculus class. And AP United States History. In fact, Gabriel was in four of his six classes. Sam was actually pretty surprised. The Novaks were notorious for being a highly intelligent family, but Gabriel? Well, the guy was a prankster, a class clown. It never occurred to Sam that he might actually be smart, too.  
  
Sam got away with sitting in the front, away from Gabriel, in English. After that, though, the Senior kept grabbing him and forcing Sam to sit in the back with the older one’s friends. Gabe made jokes all through class, whispering to his friends and making them giggle. The Winchester ended up just sitting awkwardly, trying to avoid getting in trouble.  
  
Halfway through the last class of the day, Gabriel’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out beneath the desk, and Sammy could see the amusement on his face get completely washed away. A look of terror overcame him, and he sprung to his feet. All of his papers were haphazardly brushed into his bag with urgency. His friends, Sam included, looked at him like he’d grown three heads, and began to ask him questions. The teacher, a dark-skinned and middle-aged man, took notice and looked surprised.  
  
“Gabriel, there’s still plenty of time left in class. Now’s not the time to pack up,” he said gently.  
  
The student didn’t answer. His bottom lip was curled in slightly, his eyes and brows intensely narrowed. He swung the bag over his shoulder and headed for the door, but was blocked by the teacher.  
  
“Gabriel, what are you doing? You can’t le—“  
  
“Move. I’m leaving.”  
  
Sam was alarmed at how dark the other’s voice had become. There was no silliness in it now. His words came out heavy, dense, with no room for argument. The teacher did nothing to stop him, but when the classroom door slammed shut to emphasize the teenager’s departure, he went to the small intercom near his desk and called the office to inform them of what happened.  
  
The next three days were strange. Sam avoided talking about anything that might relate to Castiel when he was around Dean, lest he was yelled and snapped at. He never brought up what happened with Gabriel, because why would he? Dinner was held in either silence or forced conversation. Dean would ask Sam how his day had been. Halfway through recounting the highlights, it’d become obvious that his older brother’s mind was somewhere completely different. He’d stop talking; Dean wouldn’t notice; they continued their meal like nothing had happened.  
  
The shaggy-haired teen would be lying if he said he wasn’t worried. It was weird for Dean to be acting this way. Normally, he’d be partying, going out to flirt with girls, chatting Sammy up and really paying attention to what he had to say. Now? He was obviously distracted. Sure, maybe he had some stress on him from trying to make sure he was going to make enough money for the apartment and groceries, but that was still no explanation for this behavior.  
  
On Friday, Gabriel returned to school. He sat quietly, staring at the teachers. When someone would ask him where he’d been, he would reply with a joke that received quiet, awkward chuckles. He was the same the next Monday. And Tuesday. And Wednesday. By Thursday, Sam couldn’t take it anymore. Not only was his brother driving him batshit, Gabriel’s weird behavior was, too. Sure, maybe they weren’t close friends—hell, they weren’t even really friends at all—but they shared classes, and Sam had this damnable personality trait that made him want to help people. And you know what? If Dean wasn’t going to let Sam help, then Gabriel sure as hell was, whether he wanted to or not!  
  
Sam confronted him at lunch. He had been waiting all day for the guy to be alone, but Gabe was pretty popular and pretty much always surrounded by friends. So Sam waited. Apparently, Gabe’s friends weren’t really digging the whole macabre and biting humor that the senior was rocking, so when he got up from the lunch table without a word, no one made a move to follow him—except Sam.  
  
If the older student noticed, he didn’t say anything. Halfway through the hall, the Winchester grabbed him by the shoulder, pulling him to a dead stop. His shoulders sagged slightly with the faintest sound of a sigh.  
  
“What is it, Sam?” He sounded tired and when the taller guy was able to finally get a good look at him, Sam understood why; Gabriel looked like a train wreck.  
  
He  frowned, trying to sound as sympathetic as possible. “Something’s been bothering you for a week and a half.”  
  
The other smiled grimly and stared at the senior. “Congratulations. Would you like a prize for figuring that out, Sherlock? Maybe a gold star?” Despite the intended joke, his voice was flat and humorless.  
  
“Well, I thought maybe you’d want to talk to somebody about it,” Sam patiently replied.  
  
“Why? Because you might be able to shit a rainbow and make everything better? Sorry, Sam, but you can’t help me.”  
  
Gabriel turned to keep walking. He only got a few steps before the moose of a teenager was blocking his path.  
  
“Look, sometimes it helps to talk to a third party about something that’s weighing on you,” the younger man insisted, ignoring the other’s eyeroll. Perhaps he needed to try another tactic? “If you won’t tell me for your own sake, how about for the sake of everyone else? It’s kind of awkward for everyone when we _know_ something’s wrong, but all you do is make jokes. It’s like walking on eggshells.”  
  
“There’s a simple solution to that: _don’t hang out with me_. Now, come on, Sam, can you please move?”  
  
“No.”  
  
The two stood glaring at each other for a full minute before a defeated sigh rumbled in the older one’s throat. He grit his teeth for a moment, then relaxed and crossed his arms over his chest.  
  
“My brother’s in the hospital,” he admitted quietly.  
  
Sam’s eyebrows shot up. He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, but _that_ wasn’t it.  
  
“Michael?” he asked.  
  
Gabriel was quick to clarify, replying, “No. Castiel.” A moment of silence lingered between them, before the young man went on. “He was walking home last Sunday night. Apparently he was wasted out of his mind. He didn’t even know where he was walking—trying to get home, I guess.” He gave a kind of melancholy smirk, shaking his head. “Well, the driver got distracted at the wrong time. He looked up, though, only clipped Cas, ended up running into a telephone pole.”  
  
Gabriel took in a deep breath, hands going into his pockets. His eyes went up and down the hallway before returning to Sam. “He’s still got a broken leg. He suffered some serious internal damage, too. Some pieces of glass got lodged in his chest. A ruptured spleen, the doc mentioned. They managed to fix it, I guess. They’re sending him home tomorrow. Apparently they only needed him in the hospital for a little over a week.”  
  
Sam listened intently, mind reeling. Cas must’ve gotten hit by a car right after leaving their apartment. Did Dean know about this? Was this why he’d been so weird lately?  
  
“Wow. I’m sorry, Gabriel. But the docs say he’s going to make a recovery?” Sam asked after a few moments of stumbling over his words.  
  
The shorter man just took in a deep breath and nodded his head. “Yeah. But we don’t know what we’re going to do with him. Michael won’t let me take off school, but _he’s_ not willing to skip a few classes to take care of Cas. Obviously, we don’t want to just leave him alone. Hell, we don’t even want him in that _apartment_ , but Michael refuses to let him come home.” He sighed, carding a hand through his hair. “It’s a giant mess.”  
  
Silence again. Gabriel looked at the ground, then up at Sam, an unreadable expression his gold-colored eyes. Finally, the taller one took in a deep breath, nodding.   
  
“Well, if you need any help, just let me know. I mean, we might not be home all the time, but maybe Cas could stay at our apartment?”  
  
 _Holy shit. What did I just say_?  
  
“Really?” the other asked, raising his brows. He looked skeptical, but nodded his head. “I’ll keep that in mind. I’ll see what Michael has to say about it.”  
  
Sam, still frowning, nodded his approval. The bell dinged loudly in the hall, forcing them to glance up.  
  
“Alright. Just let me know. Do you have my phone number?”  
  
“I’ll get it from you in Calc.”  
  
He didn’t offer a goodbye, just walked away. Sam watched him briefly, then began to head to his own class, silently panicking. Why? _Why_ had he thought it a good idea to offer his apartment? Dean would flip a shit. He should take it back. When he gets to Calculus, he should tell Gabriel that he takes it back. There’s no way Cas could stay at their apartment. Dean wouldn’t let it happen.  
  
But when he did reach the class, Gabriel was looking a lot happier. Well, he wasn’t _happy_ , per se, but he seemed a little more at ease. How could Sam just take that back?  
  
So, he didn’t say anything. He stayed after in the biology lab. He told himself it was to get a head-start on the upcoming lab assignment he was going to receive, but, truthfully, he was just avoiding going home. He could only _imagine_ how Dean would react to this news. But who knew? Maybe Michael would say that Cas couldn’t go to the Winchesters’. Hell, maybe Cas would _refuse_ to stay.  
  
His phone rang at four-thirty. Dean was asking him where he was. Sam went home shortly after that. Upon entering the apartment, he tried to get to his room before his brother could catch him. Of course, it was never that easy.  
  
“Hey, Sammy,” Dean called from his bedroom. He came out a second later, catching Sam before the boy’d been able to duck into his own bedroom.  
  
“Oh, hi, Dean,” Sam replied nervously, flashing a smile. “Did you need something?”  
  
Dean squinted slightly, looking at his brother carefully.  
  
“You feelin’ alright?” asked the man slowly.  
  
The younger boy swallowed. “Yeah. Of course I am.”  
  
They stared at each other. He knew Dean could tell he was lying; Dean always could tell when he was lying. But the subject was dropped.  
  
Uneasily, the older brother went on, “Okay. Dinner’s going to be ready in fifteen minutes.”  
  
Both their doors closed. Sam breathed a sigh of relief and dropped his book bag on his bed. He’d managed to get a whole week’s worth of Biology homework done that afternoon, with no news from Gabriel. Perhaps Sam was in the clear.  
  
At dinner, Dean seemed a little more attentive. It was probably because he sensed Sam was uneasy and was looking for any sign that might clue him in on what it was about. It was a simple dinner—Hamburger Helper, or something like that, dripping with grease and artificial cheese sauce.  
  
The first few minutes was filled with idle chitchat. A lot of “How was your day?”s and “Did anything interesting happen?”s. Of course, Sam didn’t mention what Gabriel had told him. Halfway through dinner, though, his phone buzzed loudly in his pocket. He jumped, heart pounding in his chest. He pulled it out and took a quick glance at the message  
           From: Gabriel Novak  
           Message: is the offer still up?  
  
His face kept blank. He pushed the phone back into his pocket.  
  
“Who was that?” questioned Dean.  
  
A moment of thought. “Ash,” he said. “He wanted to know what the homework was.”  
  
“And you didn’t text him back?” Green eyes brightened, staring intensely at the young man.  
  
“Oh, well, I figured I’d do it after dinner.”  
  
“Hm.”  
  
Dinner was quietly finished. The plastic dishware was thrown in the trash. Sam was anxiously trying to figure a way out of this mess he’d created. He watched his brother settle down on the couch, giving his tired eyes a rub. Sam’s phone buzzed again, and the shaggy-haired teen saw that he’d received another message from Gabriel, simply repeating the same message. He sighed, frowning deeply. This was going to be nothing short of difficult.  
  
Sam slowly walked over to the couch, sitting down next to his brother. They were in silence for a few minutes until, apparently, Dean couldn’t take it anymore.  
  
He demanded, “Okay, Sam. What’s your problem?”  
  
The younger boy started, not having expected that question. “Oh, me? Heh, nothing, nothing…” he said quickly, grinning. That smile quickly fell off of his face, though. He took in a deep breath and stared the TV. “I was just… I was just wondering how you’d feel if…If _Cas_ came and lived with us for awhile.”  
  
Dean raised a brow, looking as if Sam had just asked the most inappropriate and disrespectful question he could think of.  
  
“I’m sorry, _what_ did you just say? Did Cas put you up to this?”  
  
“No, no, no!” his brother answered quickly, noticing how quickly Dean’s anger was flaring up. “Actually, it was, uh, it was Gabriel. See, he—Cas—needs somewhere to stay for a couple of weeks, but Michael isn’t willing to let him stay at their house. So, Gabe was just wondering if maybe Cas could crash here for a little bit?”  
  
Dean rolled his eyes, shifting in his seat. “Wow,” he muttered. He continued bitterly, “What’s wrong with his own damn apartment? Dude’s got enough drugs there to keep a damn elephant happy and sedated. What? Did the landlord find out about how his home drugstore and kick him out?”  
  
“N-not exactly…” He had to tell him. _Obviously_ , he had to tell him. Sam stared at his hands uncomfortably, then brought his gaze to the television again. “Castiel… He was kind of in a car accident…Well, I guess not exactly a car accident. He got hit the other night when he was walking down the street. Apparently, it was pretty bad. They’ve got him mostly fixed up, though. But Michael wants him to stay somewhere that isn’t Cas’ apartment, because he doesn’t trust him to take care of himself, I guess, but he won’t let Cas stay at their house. So, I told Gabriel that maybe _we_ could take him in for a while. Probably just long enough for him to, y’know, be able to handle himself…”  
  
Sam sneaked a look at his brother. Most people wouldn’t have been able to tell a difference in his expressions, but Sam could. He noticed the tell-tale signs of concern on Dean’s face, like the tenseness of the muscles around his eyes and forehead, the way his jaw twitched. It was just enough to let him know that, yes, Dean was concerned.  
  
The older Winchester cleared his throat, then asked in a dark voice, “When did that happen?”  
  
There it was. The million-dollar question. Sam made a face, before tentatively answering, “Two Sundays ago.”  
  
It took a moment for Dean to do the math in his head. When he’d got it, though, he stood and grabbed his jacket from one of the kitchen stools, throwing it on.  
  
“Where’s he at?”  
  
“Uh…” Sam looked at his phone and quickly texted back, asking the question. “I don’t know. Let me ask Gabriel.”  
  
The waiting was tense and awkward. Dean was obviously impatient, pacing in front of the door. Luckily, Gabriel was quick to answer.   
  
“Lawrence Memorial. Room 274. But Dean, I don’t think it’s—“  
  
“ _You_ brought it up, Sam.”  
  
There was something dangerous in his tone that made Sam go quiet. He watched as his brother shoved on his shoes, then grabbed the keys from the kitchen counter.  
  
“I’m going to the hospital. You coming?”  
  
They stared at each other, and finally Sam nodded. Someone had to be there to keep his brother in check, after all.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM NOT A DOCTOR. I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I'M DOING.  
> Just fair warning. Google can only teach me so much.


	6. How to Make a Guilty Man Feel Guiltier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean takes Cas home.

Sam was pretty sure they were going to get into a car wreck themselves. Dean sped through the streets faster than normal, swerving around other vehicles and yelling at drivers when they went too slow. The passenger tried to distract himself by texting Gabriel, conveying to him what exactly was going on with his brother.  
  
Of course, Gabriel turned out to be completely unhelpful.  
  
When they got to the hospital, Sam had to jog to keep up with how quickly his brother was walking. They were directed to the room, and the older one decided it’d be faster to run up the stairs than to wait for an elevator. So, Sam was forced to jog behind his brother, who took the stairs two or three at a time.

   
They were intercepted by Gabriel in the lobby. He blocked their path, looking from Sam to Dean. The latter wouldn’t even look at him initially. His green eyes went past the man, searching for Castiel’s room. He didn’t even noticed Michael lounging in one of the chairs, iPad sitting comfortably in his lap as he typed away on it.  
  
“Where’s Cas?” Dean asked, finally looking down at the youngest Novak.  
  
The teen took in a deep breath, peering at Dean intensely, as if trying to will him to calm down. “He just fell asleep,” he said slowly, placatingly. “I’m glad you came, though. Michael was getting antsy.”  
  
Speak of the devil, the man chose that moment to loudly close the cover to his device and saunter over to the three men. His face was all business, and his snake-like eyes roamed over Dean with distaste.  
  
“Dean, Sam. I’m glad to see you could make it,” he said politely. “Gabriel told me that you volunteered your apartment for _Castiel_.” Again, his voice took on the strange stress it had when Michael had talked about his brother at church. “I, however, do not think that that is the best idea.”  
  
Dean smirked, raising a brow. “Oh yeah? And why’s that? You think your place is gonna be better?”  
  
“It would be. But I don’t want him laying a foot in my house.” Before Dean could question why exactly that was, Michael went on to say, “However, there’s nowhere else I’d be willing to send him. So, I guess that leaves _you_ as his best option.”  
  
“Oh, well, thank you for your blessings, Godfather,” replied the Winchester sarcastically.  
  
Michael’s eye twitched, the only sign that he was growing irritated. “I don’t want him drinking. I don’t want him smoking. I don’t want him taking drugs. I don’t want him having sex. I don’t want him doing anything that you wouldn’t let Sam do. Do we understand each other?”  
  
“Cas is a big boy; I think he can take care of himself,” Dean replied automatically. Truthfully, he didn’t think his friend was in any shape to be taking care of himself, but the Winchester apparently lived to contradict Michael.   
  
The corner of the dark-haired man’s lips curled smugly. “You must not have spent much time with him lately. Look, I just want my brother to be in safe hands. That’s it. Now, will you take him in, or do I need to hire a babysitter?”  
  
The two stared at each other, Sam and Gabriel sharing uncomfortable looks.  
  
“Let me go see him,” Dean demanded after a minute.  
  
“He’s sleeping.”  
  
“And?”  
  
Michael rolled his eyes. After a moment, he said, “Well, I’m sure he’ll be… so _happy_ to see you.”  
  
Dean pushed past, finding Cas’ room with ease. He opened the door, poking his head in just enough to get a look at the room. He took a steadying breath as he saw his friend. Castiel’s eyes were closed. There were a few cuts on his face, as well as on his bare arms. A thin blanket was pulled up over the man’s chest, but Dean could still see the lump of a cast beneath it on Cas’ right leg.  
  
He looked peaceful as he slept, as cliché as that sounds. With his eyes closed and his chest gently rising and falling, Dean couldn’t help but think he looked sixteen again. For a moment, he forgot about the drugs and the alcohol and the sex. Cas was just _Cas_ —a nerdy kid in a khaki trench coat who didn’t understand pop culture references or jokes.  
  
Dean sat in the chair next to the bed, moving quietly to do so. Settled, he took a moment to just watch the other, drinking in the innocent image of his friend.  
  
“Cas, are you awake?” Dean’s voice was quiet, unsteady. When there was no response, he said, “Look, man… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t… I shouldn’t have let you leave like that. I know you’re upset… You have every right to be… It’s just that…”  
  
Dean could feel his throat closing up. _I’m a friggin’ girl_ , he thought. He was quiet for a few seconds, lost in his own thoughts until Castiel began to move. He was brought to attention, listening to jumbled, muttered words as the injured came to. Blue eyes opened slowly, staring at the ceiling. He didn’t look at Dean, not for a full minute. When his gaze finally landed on the other, though, he seemed genuinely surprised.  
  
“Dean. Wh-what are you doing here?”  
  
Pink lips offered a sad smile. “Here to take your ass home, that’s what.”  
  
Castiel seemed to come to his senses, and after a moment of confusion, he sighed. “He wants me to stay with _you_?” Though there was some irritation in his voice, it was mostly utter confusion. “I don’t understand.”  
  
“Well, he doesn’t actually _want_ you to. I guess it’s just better than the other option of dressing you like an eighty-three-year-old woman and stuffing you in the old folks’ home.”  
  
The injured man did not appear amused by the joke. “I can take care of myself. Michael can’t _make_ me stay anywhere. I’m an adult.”  
  
“Yes, and I’m sure you’ll have a lot of fun dragging a broken leg around all by yourself while you try not to bust open your stitches. You’ll have to tell me how that works out.”  
  
Castiel exhaled sharply through his nose, glaring intensely at Dean. “I have friends that can help me.”  
  
“Oh, right, I forgot,” Dean said mockingly with a smile, “Meg and the girl whose name you can’t remember. I’m sure they’ll be real useful when they’re making you some pot pancakes.”  
  
“And you think _you’ll_ be more beneficial?” Blue eyes flashed dangerously as venom soaked his words. “I know how that will go. You’ll wait until I’m at my most vulnerable, then pick up and leave without a word, _just_ to make sure you inflict the most damage possible. That _is_ what you do best, is it not?”  
  
He could see the twinges of hurt in the Dean’s face, but he didn’t care. It was obvious that he was still angry, still bitter.  
  
“You’ll be better off at my and Sammy’s apartment than you will be at your own. We don’t even have to talk to each other,” Dean replied after what felt like an hour-long silence. His face and voice were cold and emotionless. “You can just lie in a bed all day and watch television. And you know what? You don’t even have to _see_ me. I’m sure Sam would be more than happy to take care of you. But you _can’t_ go to your apartment. That’s out of the question.”  
  
Castiel seemed to be going over the different options in his head. His lips pressed together tightly. Dean could sense his apprehension. A memory crossed his mind, and he asked, “This is the first time in awhile that you’ve seen Gabriel, isn’t it?”  
  
The other man reluctantly nodded.  
  
“Well, what if he comes over after school a few days a week and hangs out with you? You know that if you go home, Michael’s not going to let you see him.” He waited some moments, letting that sink in. “So, what do you say, Cas? What’s the worst that could happen?”  
  
Many minutes passed while the blue-eyed man ran through all the different scenarios he could imagine in his head. Every time, he came to one conclusion: things would be better at the Winchesters’ than anywhere else. The only problem was seeing Dean.  
  
“Okay.”  
  
The brunette started, obviously surprised. “Okay?” he asked carefully, “So, you’ll do it?”  
  
“Yes,” Castiel replied heavily, “as long as one condition is met: I don’t want to have to see you any more than necessary.”  
  
Dean swallowed, and he nodded slowly. “Yeah… Uh, yeah, okay. That seems reasonable. Should I go tell Michael?”

  
“That would probably be best.”

 

* * *

  
  


The next day, Dean picked Castiel up from the hospital on his lunch break. He’d informed Bobby that it’d be a little longer than normal, just to ensure that that the guy was comfortable. His uncle seemed to understand why Dean was doing this, more or less. Of course, he didn’t know the whole truth about how the Winchester had left; he probably just assumed that Dean was doing it out of the goodness of his heart and wanting to reconnect with an old friend.  
  
The dark-haired young man was pushed from the medical center in a wheelchair. Michael explained the medication, then made sure to remind him of the rules: no drinking, no smoking, no drugs, no sex. Dean brushed him off, then realized that the Impala was not made for the crippled. Trying to get Castiel, who apparently hated him, into the car required a lot of grabbing, pulling, and awkward body placements. When he’d finally gotten the brat inside, Dean climbed into the driver’s seat, concentrating on not losing his mind. A glance in the rearview mirror let him peek at his new roommate. The guy looked tired, resigned, his cast-covered leg lying on the backseat.  
  
No conversations were held. Music wasn’t even played. They simply rode in silence. Dean could feel the other’s glare boring into the back of his skull. It made him uncomfortable, honestly, but didn’t he deserve it?  
  
They rode up to the Winchesters’ apartment. Dean pushed the wheelchair inside, taking his guest straight to the bedroom. Cas cocked a brow, glancing up at Dean. The room was pretty bare, like the rest of the apartment; it held a bed, and on the wall opposite the foot of it, there was a dresser. Atop it sat a television, the same television that had been in the living room the night before.  
  
“You’re going to be staying in here the next couple weeks,” Dean said, voice stony. “I think I’ll try to get a mini-fridge in here, too, that way you don’t have to go too far to get something to eat or drink.”  
  
The wheelchair was pushed up next to the bed, and Dean took a step back, staring awkwardly at Castiel. Getting it, the young man tried to push himself out of his chair. His arms shook terribly, and he attempted three more times before plopping back down, sighing.  
  
Dean placed a gentle hand on Cas’ shoulder, starting to help him out. “Here, let me—“  
  
His guest violently ripped himself out of Dean’s grasp, glaring up at him. “Don’t touch me,” he snapped, gravelly voice threatening. “I’ve gotten along these last five years without your help; I can get along without it now.”  
  
Neither man decided to point out the irony in that, but Dean backed off anyway. After several minutes of impatient struggle, Cas had finally gotten into the bed. He tried his best to hide the pain from his face, but didn’t do a good job of it. His hand went to press over his spleen, forgetting about the fractured ribs. As he pushed down, he hissed through his teeth, quickly pulling his hand away. Once he’d gotten past the pain, though, he arranged himself comfortably on the bed.  
  
“There are some things I’d like from my apartment,” Cas said, staring intently at the blank television screen.  
  
Dean breathed deeply through his nose. He wasn’t going to argue with Cas. He wasn’t going to yell at Cas. _He wasn’t going to lose his goddamn mind_. It was taking every ounce of restraint that he had not to just flip out at his friend—if he could call him that. Most of this would probably blow over in a few days; Castiel just needed some time to cool off.  
  
“What?” Perhaps he sounded a little too gruff, a little too irritated, by why care? It wasn’t like _Castiel_ was being polite.  
  
“Some clothes. Toothbrush. I have some medications in the cabinet, too.”  
  
“No.”  
  
Blue eyes snapped to Dean, narrowing. “What?”  
  
“I’ll get your clothes and toothbrush—the necessities, y’know. But there is no way I’m going to grab your ‘medications’ from the cabinet.”  
  
“Dean, I _need_ those,” Castiel grimaced, sounding more than annoyed.  
  
“Oh, I’m _sure_ you do.”  
  
“ _Dean_ ,” the man snapped, sitting up a little straighter. “I do have _prescribed medications_ that I need to take. Unless you want to have a mess on your hands, I suggest you get them. You can see which ones are mine based on the labels. Just please get them for me, okay?”  
  
Pink lips pursed, Dean stared carefully down at Castiel, unsure if he really believed him. “I’ll look into it, but I’m not promising anything.”  
  
The guest rolled his eyes, slowly leaning back against the wall, trying to adjust the many pillows behind him. “You’re impossible,” he muttered.  
  
“Hey, you can’t really blame me. Smoking weed, drinking eight gallons of booze a day, and then asking me to go get your ‘medications?’ It makes you sound like a pill popper. You never needed meds before.”  
  
Blue eyes glared intensely into Dean’s face. Cas looked like he might make some witty, biting comeback, but instead he shut his mouth. He took a deep breath.  
  
“Please, Dean. I legitimately need two of the bottles. Quetiapine and Effexor,” he said quietly, holding a steady, almost desperate gaze.  
  
His host took in a deep breath, then exhaled, glancing at the ground and nodding. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever. I’ll grab ‘em.” He looked up at the television and took the remote off the dresser, handing it to Cas. “We only got the cable channels you can steal, so, uh, have fun with that. I’m gonna go grab your stuff, then head back. I shouldn’t be more than an hour.”  
  
“Thank you.” Cas closed his eyes, tense shoulders suddenly relaxing.  
  
Just as he’d said, Dean returned to the apartment an hour later. During his first visit, the man hadn’t been able to truly appreciate how _disgusting_ Cas’ place was. Dirt, grime, burn stains, and some other ones that Dean didn’t want to identify. They were all over the place. He’d gone through the flat as quickly as he could, grabbing the two prescriptions, clothes, and essentials, before booking it out of there. How could a person _live_ in such a place? Sure, Dean wasn’t Mr. Clean, but even _he_ had his limits.  
  
As he’d thought, Quetzalcoatl and Extreme-ier were not the only pills that were kept in Cas’ bathroom. There were a half-dozen others with the labels ripped off and mostly empty. There were also some rather mysterious liquids that Dean was afraid to even _touch_. What kind of shit was his friend into these days?  
  
Castiel was asleep when Dean entered. Moving quietly, he made a place for the other man’s clothes in his dresser. The hairbrush and toothbrush (which looked like they were rarely used) were put in the bathroom. When it came to the medications, however, Dean studied the two he’d brought with him. Both said to take orally once a day, and there were plenty of refills for both of them. What were they even for?  
  
He glanced at his watch. He should be going back to work, soon. Sam would be home in an hour or so, probably bringing Gabriel along. Cas could handle himself in the meantime… Probably. He placed the two pill bottles next to the painkillers that had been prescribed. Another cautious look into his bedroom—well, _Cas’_ bedroom, now. After he’d been able to convince himself that the guy would be okay, Dean finally left and headed to work.  
  


  
Sam and Gabriel arrived around three. The Winchester was glad to see that his new friend was starting to act like his old self again. His jokes were a little less morbid, his comments less bitter. It was a start. Of course, he still seemed rather somber—for Gabriel, at least.  
  
All day, he’d expressed his eagerness to visit his brother in slight comments. “We’re going to your house after this, right?” “You sure you don’t have anything to do after school today?” “Did Dean pick Cas up from the hospital?” Little questions had been thrown out sporadically throughout school. The walk home _should_ have taken fifteen minutes, but the quick pace that Gabriel forced made it nine.  
  
They walked inside, looking around cautiously like a wild tiger might pop out at any moment. Sam quietly laid his bag on the ground, and his friend followed suit. The apartment was silent, save for the gentle purr of the refrigerator.  
  
Sam glanced over at Gabriel and asked softly, “He’s probably sleeping. We should—”  
  
“ _Cas_! Cassie, you up?”  
  
The tall teen flinched at the obtrusive and loud call, giving Gabe a look that said, “ _Really_?” The senior just shrugged it off, heading farther into the apartment.  
  
“Gabriel?”  
  
The young man brightened at the sound of his name, quickly heading toward it. He disappeared into Dean’s room, and Sam entered just in time to see Cas’ hand fall away from his brother’s head. When Sam had popped in on Cas and Dean’s dinner two Sundays ago, he hadn’t been able to get a really good look at the guy. All he’d been able to tell was that he was a _lot_ different. Now, in the afternoon light, Sam was given his first opportunity to really see him.  
  
The guest’s skin was sallow, and the Winchester could see just by the way the man’s shirt fit that he’d become bonier. His elbows were knobby, looking rather ridiculous on his frail, thin arms. Dark bags had formed under his eyes, which, surprisingly, were as bright as ever. His hair had grown longer. It was shaggy, dark, and hung over his ears. Sam could even see the man’s tattoo, which started a few inches below the elbow. _Cas_ had gotten a _tattoo_? _Castiel_?  
  
“Hey, Cas. How are you feeling?” he asked, taking a step into the room.  
  
The other smiled, causing his cheeks to look a little more full and healthy.  
  
“Hello, Sam. It is good to see you.” Sam noticed the small cuts on the man’s face, the scrape just above his right eye. “I am feeling well, by the way. Thank you for allowing me to stay in your house.”  
  
“Oh, it’s no problem.” _Well, he still talks the same way_. “Do you need anything? Did you eat lunch?”  
  
“I am quite all right. I just woke up from a nap. I was going to watch television, actually.”  
  
“You want us to leave you alone?” Gabriel asked, looking down at his brother.  
  
“You should go and do your homework,” Castiel responded firmly, nodding.  
  
The younger brother just rolled his eyes. “ _Pfft_. Homework? You’re supposed to do that right before class starts.”  
  
“I am sure that work ethic will reflect in your grades.”  
  
The brunette frowned, scrunching up his face. After a moment, though, he brightened and swung his arm up and awkwardly around Sam’s shoulders. “I have a new ace up my sleeve, though: Sam Winchester, straight-A student and brainiac.”  
  
“ _Sam_ cannot take your tests for you.”  
  
“No, but he can help me study for them!” Gabe grinned, then looked up at the younger teen, who was looking uncomfortable with the way he was forced to bend slightly to accommodate the arm. “Right, Sammy?”  
  
“Don’t call me Sammy.”  
  
“Sure, kiddo. _Anyway_ , the point is, Cas, that I have plenty of time to blow on watching TV. So queue it up.”  
  
Castiel exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “I’m afraid there’s not enough room on the bed for all of us,” he said after a moment, beginning to carefully scoot himself over.  
  
“That’s all right! Sam would take up a bed and a half, anyway. He can sit on the floor.”  
  
Sam looked surprised, staring at Gabriel. “Wh-why do I have to sit on the floor?”  
  
“Because you’re the size of a friggin’ moose,” his friend stated matter-of-factly. “Now, you got any candy around here?”  
  


  
It was almost five when the three men heard the front door open and shut. There were a few cautious calls from the oldest Winchester, and a few seconds later he stumbled into the bedroom. His eyes narrowed as he looked at the weird scene in front of him. Castiel was sitting on one side of the bed. His hands were neatly folded in his lap, looking ironically like a perfect angel. The guy’s younger brother was sitting next to him, stuffing his face with miniature cookies. His left arm was resting comfortably on top of the head of Sam, who was sitting on the floor and looking rather defeated. All their eyes, however, were trained on the television.  
  
“Star Wars… Nice,” he muttered, nodding his approval.  
  
Castiel jumped slightly, as if being woken, but did not look at Dean. His posture considerably worsened, however, and he leaned lazily against the wall and pillows. His hands fell out of his lap. The lines of his face hardened as he focused intently on the screen a few feet from him.  
  
“Hey, Dean,” Sam greeted him, looking up. Gabriel gave a grunt of disapproval, his arm coming to his side. “How was work?”  
  
His brother shrugged. “It was fine. Gabe, you stayin’ for dinner?”  
  
“Dinner? How old are you?” Gabe asked, raising a brow. “It’s not even four. You headin’ down to the Cracker Barrel for the Senior Special?”  
  
“Uh, it’s five-oh-six, dude.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Five. Zero. Six?”  
  
“Shit!” Gabriel jumped off the bed in a panic, nearly stepping on top of Sam. “Shit, shit, shit! Michael’s gonna kill me. I was supposed to be home at five. _Fuck_.” He rounded the bed, then stopped in front of Castiel. “Sorry, bro! I’ll be back tomorrow. _Move_ , Dean.”  
  
The young man squirmed by, practically running through the apartment to get out. The door slammed and soon Gabriel was gone, probably sprinting down the street. The Winchesters shared a smile and a chuckle, while Cas’ eyes turned down to his lap, where his hands were resting again.  
  
“Well, _anyway_ , I’m going to make dinner. You two hungry?”  
  
Sam nodded, and the two boys looked at Cas, who was still lost in his hands.  
  
“Cas, you wanna eat?” Dean asked, taking another step into the room. At first, he thought that the dude was just being a dick, giving him the “silent treatment” since Dean said they wouldn’t have to talk to each other. However, as he got closer, he could see the worry etched onto the man’s face. Gently, Dean pressed a hand to Cas’ shoulder, leaning down so he was at eye-level. “ _Castiel_.”  
  
The man blinked. If it hadn’t been for the hand on his back, Dean wouldn’t have even noticed the slight shudder. It seemed to take a moment to realize where he was, and his blue eyes looked up at Dean. They were soft, innocent again, but then reality seemed to hit him and they became ice hard. Castiel turned, moving his shoulder away from Dean’s touch.  
  
“Yes… I’d like to eat. I need to take my medications, too. I usually take them during dinner.” His voice was steady, as if he’d been perfectly fine all along.  
  
Dean stood up straight, staring down at his old friend. He and Sam exchanged looks, but said nothing. “Yeah, okay. It’s gonna be about twenty minutes. Hamburger Helper.”  
  
Cas didn’t respond. With a sigh, Dean left the room, and Sam followed shortly after. In the kitchen, Dean began pulling out the different things the box asked for. Sam sat down at the island, casting furtive looks towards the new guestroom.  
  
“He didn’t try to pull anything while you were here, did he?” Dean asked, speaking quietly so that Cas wouldn’t be able to hear him.  
  
The teenager’s brows furrowed. “Pull anything?”  
  
“Yeah. Like, he didn’t try to get you to get him some beer or cigarettes or anything else?”  
  
Sam shook his head. “No. We just came in, sat down, and watched Star Wars. Same old Cas.”  
  
Dean snorted slightly, shaking his head as he put a pan on the stove. _We have cooking pans? When’d we get_ those _?_ Sam thought to himself.  
  
“ _Yeah_. ‘Same old Cas,’ right,” his brother said mockingly.  
  
They were quiet with just the sound of meat sizzling as it hit hot metal. Sam soon grabbed his book bag (he was surprised to see that Gabriel had remembered to snatch his own while he’ fleeing the premises), and began doing homework at the kitchen island. He kept glancing up at Dean, though. It was definitely a weird scene. Dean hadn’t done this much cooking since… Well, _ever_.  
  
When the food was almost done, Dean asked his brother to go grab the pills Cas would need to take with dinner. When his brother came back, he had a concerned look on his face. Pills stowed in his hand, he pulled out three plastic plates and forks.  
  
“Dean, did you see what he was taking?” Sam asked cautiously.  
  
Moss-colored eyes just barely flicked to his brother as he placed the cover on the pan. “Uh, I guess? Don’t really know what they’re for. Queeteypane and Effexing? Then something for his leg pain and to make sure his spleen recovers.”  
  
“Quetiapine and Effexor,” Sam sighed.  
  
“Close enough.”  
  
Sam’s lips tightened, as if he were deciding whether he should mention it or not. Finally, he said, “They’re both prescription drugs. Quetiapine is a heavy-duty anti-anxiety medication, and Effexor is a really strong antidepressant. He’s gotta be pretty messed up to have these, Dean.”  
  
The older brother was quiet. He looked at Sam, then, after a moment, picked up the pan. He brought it over and divided the food up equally. He set the pan down in the sink, then got out a cup and filled it with water.  
  
“Go take him his meds and food. He said he wants to deal with me as little as possible,” Dean dead-panned, thin-lipped.  
  
Sam let out a soft, exasperated breath, but he didn’t push the issue. He took the food in as he was instructed, politely asking Cas if he wanted any company. ( _“No, thank you, Sam. I understand you have many challenging classes. You should get ahead in your schoolwork, though I appreciate your offer.”_ ) He returned to the kitchen, and the Winchesters ate in silence. For the rest of the night, Sam would go in and out of Cas’ room, making sure he was okay. He helped him to the bathroom when he needed it, and meanwhile Dean roamed the house mindlessly. He stole Sam’s laptop at one point. When Sam walked by and managed to get a peek at what he was looking at, he saw that they were articles about depression, anxiety, and Castiel’s medications.  
  
By the time everyone had gone to bed, they still hadn’t talked about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I talk about some medications in this that I, personally, don’t know the exact effects of. So, if you take one, and I didn’t really hit the nail on the head, I’m sorry. Portrayal of depression and anxiety are based off of what I've dealt with and seen, but I understand that everyone handles it differently. Also, I’m not a doctor, I just play one in writing. Thanks to my beta Laura for staying up late and editing~


	7. Not Coming Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Cas act like children around each other, and if something doesn’t happen soon, Sam might kill them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so sorry this took so long! Between AP exams and graduating, I’ve had so little time to myself, and the time I have had I was too exhausted to write. But here you go! I hope you like this. I decided I’d let this chapter focus on the growing Sabriel friendship, so I hope you guys don’t mind. Also, it gives you a little insight on how the Novaks’ live and whatnot. Thanks again to my way-too-awesome beta, Laura!

The following days were incredibly frustrating. It wasn’t too bad at first. Gabriel spent as much time as possible at the Winchesters’, enjoying the opportunity to get to see Cas. He and Sam did the most to help the guy out, it seemed. They brought him his food, adjusted the television when needed, escorted him to the bathroom; hell, Gabriel even helped him change a couple of times.  
  
And what did Dean do?  
  
In Sam’s eyes, a whole lot of nothing.  
  
Dean cooked food, and Sam delivered it. What else did Dean do? _Nothing_. All he did was tell Sam what to do, and it was driving the kid insane. After all, Castiel was _Dean’s_ friend, not Sam’s! The two were never in the same room. They never spoke to each other. Maybe offering his house up hadn’t been the best idea.  
  
But Gabriel seemed to be enjoying himself. He, at least, seemed happy to be spending time with his brother. Even Gabe had his limits, though.  
  
Sam was enjoying the freedom of being out of the Apartment from Hell, more than happy to be walking Gabriel back to his house. He easily stayed in step with the shorter teen, unconsciously clenching his jaw and fist. It was all beginning to seriously grate on him. If the problem didn’t get fixed, he didn’t think he could keep Cas there for another… What was it, five weeks? He’d lose it. Maybe he’d lock them in a closet so he didn’t have to hear them. Or he could just as easily chuck them out the window, though that might be a little harsh.  
  
“I’m thinking about punching my brother in the face. How do you think that would go down?”  
  
Sam was quickly brought out of his plotting by the sudden words, and he looked over at Gabriel. The man was looking a little more than irritated, his arms crossed over his chest, and his eyes glaring forward.  
  
“I think I’d help you out with that,” Sam muttered, shaking his head. “So, you’ve noticed how ridiculous they’re being, too?”  
  
“Of course I have. They’re both being a couple o’ giant dicks.”  
  
The younger teenager let out a happy sigh. “I’m so glad it’s not just me. I mean, they’ve been acting like total… total _brats_. And _you_ only get to see part of it. I’m there basically twenty-four-seven, and I’m just ready to…” He shook his head, letting an angry breath out through his nose.  
  
“Yeah,” Gabriel sighed, “I tried asking Castiel what his problem was, but all he’d say was that he didn’t want anything to do with Dean.”  
  
“Got any idea why?”  
  
The senior pursed his lips and glanced at Sam. He was quiet for a moment, then said in a slightly quieter voice, “I’m not sure. I mean… I think he’s still bitter that you guys left Lawrence without telling him. A few months after that, I remember hearing him and Michael arguing. Dean’s name got thrown around, but I didn’t hear any specifics.”  
  
“Huh.” Sam furrowed his brows and frowned slightly. “I know he and Dean were best friends, but I didn’t think he’d still be that mad about it.”  
  
His companion shrugged.  
  
“Who knows? I could be wrong. I’m just throwing ideas out there,” Gabe said. “Still doesn’t help us fix whatever issue they’re dealing with now.”  
  
“And it definitely needs to get fixed. I was thinking about throwing Dean out a window today. _Out of a window_. _Me_.” Sam shook his head. “I won’t be able to stand it much longer. I’m going to snap.”  
  
Gabriel raised a brow, glancing up at the Winchester. “Just stay calm, kiddo. We’ll figure out a way to get those two back on speaking terms, at least.” He was quiet, then gave a sly smile as an idea hatched in his brain. “We could just leave them there.”  
  
“What do you mean? They’re always there.”  
  
The older teen rolled his eyes. “Exactly. Your brother’s not going to leave Cas there alone—at least not for very long. Say that you’re going to a friend’s house to spend the night, make them have to spend a few uninterrupted hours together. I mean, the worst that could happen is that they kill each other, but then our problem would still be solved!”  
  
Sam smirked and chuckled at the idea. “There’s no way Dean would let me do that.”  
  
“Who the hell cares what _Dean_ thinks?” Gabe asked, stopping to look at the other. “You’re a big boy, and it’s not like he’s your dad. What’s he gonna do? _Ground_ you?”  
  
The tall brunette clumsily came to a stop as well, then looked over his shoulder to stare at his new friend. He gave an open-mouth smiled with a breathy laugh, as if the senior was being ridiculous. But as he thought about it, he really did have a point, didn’t he? What _could_ Dean do to Sam? It’s not like he’d actually call Dad to complain. If he did that, they could kiss this living-in-Lawrence thing goodbye.  
  
“You know, Gabriel,” Sam laughed, “that’s actually a brilliant idea. I’m impressed.”  
  
“What can I say? I’m smarter than I look,” he shrugged with a grin.  
  
Sam pulled his phone out of his pocket, quickly opening a new text and typing away. The golden-eyed man closed the few steps between them, looking curiously at the phone.  
  
“Are you doing it now?”  
  
“Yeah, why not?”  
  
“Who are you going to stay with?”  
  
“Well, I was kind of assuming _you_.”  
  
Gabriel gave him a look, then shrugged his shoulders again for the umpteenth time that day.  “Okay, then. I’m sure Michael won’t mind. I think he’s got class tonight, anyway.”  
  
“What about your mom?”  
  
The older man glanced down slightly, but his answer came out rather nonchalant. “She won’t care.”  
  
“Great, then. Sounds like a plan.”  
  
Within minutes of sending the text, Sam was getting a call. He stared at it for a long minute, wondering if he could ignore it forever. Finally, though, he decided he should just pick it up and suffer through the bitching that was about to come.  
  
“Sam, what are you talking about?” snapped Dean before his brother had even gotten out a greeting. “I need you _here_.”  
  
“I’m sorry, Dean, but I completely forgot that Gabriel and I have an English project due tomorrow. It’s a huge grade.” He couldn’t help but feel a little guilty for lying to his big brother. But it was for a good cause, right?  
  
“Then do it here!”  
  
“It’s gonna take all night, dude, and there’s no way Michael’s letting Gabe stay over at our house. Come on, it’s just one night. You guys can get along for _one_ _night_ , can’t you?”  
  
There was silence on the other end. “You can’t just do it all—“  
  
Sam didn’t bother waiting to hear the rest of it. “I’ll be back after school tomorrow.”  
  
With that, he hung up his phone and slipped it back into his pocket. “And hopefully by morning, they’ll hate each other a little less.”  
  
Gabriel grinned and nodded his approval. “Amen.”

* * *

  
The house looked the same as it always had. To Sam, the place had always seemed mysterious and entrancing. It was a Victorian-era house with a spire on the left side. There was a bay window on each floor, stacked on top of one another. The wrought-iron fencing that surrounded the estate seemed to be freshly painted, the dark color bold against the white of the house. It was a huge display of the Novaks’ class and wealth, especially with the ironic contrast of a new BMW in the driveway.  
  
Gabriel lead him up to the front porch, unlocking it and poking his head inside.  
  
“Hey, Michael. You home?” he called out.  
  
“Yes, Gabriel,” came a voice from upstairs, sounding incredibly irritated.  
  
The teenager ushered his guest inside before turning to lock the door behind him and walking deeper into the house.  
  
“I got Sam with me. He’s spending the night.”  
  
The Winchester peered around the foyer, his brows raised. He’d never seen a place like this. He and Dean had been _outside_ the house plenty of times to pick up Cas and take him to their house, but _never_ had they been allowed to enter.  
  
If the outside was beautiful, the inside was stunning. The furniture was a mix of the contemporary and the classic. Elegantly crafted bookshelves lined an entire wall of the room. Each was completely filled with books about law, medicine, biology, and biographical stories. Leather armchairs were set up to frame the bay window, which was curtained with thin, white fabric. The floor was dark wood and slick, making Sam feel as if he were standing on an expensive piece of art. The walls were painted a dim green, giving the room a forest-like feeling. It was peaceful.  
  
Sam stopped ogling at expensive landscape paintings on the wall just in time to see Michael descend the stairs. Was the guy _always_ in a suit? He probably slept in them, shoes and all. His dark hair was neatly parted at the side and slicked back. He looked like he was about to go to a wedding, really.  
  
The younger Winchester had always found his brother’s hatred unfounded. Maybe Sam didn’t exactly _like_ him, but what reason was there to _dis_ like the man? He was intelligent and athletic. He completely supported his family (well, other than Cas). He was kind and courteous to everyone. He seemed like a nice guy. Sure, Sam got some weird vibes from him, but that was no reason not to trust him.  
  
“Gabriel, you know how I feel about visitors,” Michael frowned, dark blue eyes staring intently at Sam.  
  
Yeah, so maybe he was _kinda_ creepy.  
  
Brushing a hand through his hair, Gabe stared up at his brother, cracking half a smile.  
  
“And you know how I feel about listening to you,” he retorted, though it did not hold its usual airiness.  
  
Michael finally tore his eyes away from Sam and placed them on his brother.  
  
“Mother is sick, Gabriel, and I do not want—“  
  
“Mom’s been sick for years, and bringing a friend over isn’t going to make her suddenly keel over.”  
  
The two stared at each other, distaste staining both their faces. Sam suddenly felt very uncomfortable and chose this moment to clasp his hands behind his back and stare at his shoes. It was probably the safest option.  
  
“Fine,” Michael conceded after a few stress-filled moments, causing Sam to release the breath he’d been holding, “but remain quiet.”  
  
Gabriel gave his brother a half-salute, then beckoned his friend to follow. As they went through the house, Sam made sure to move very carefully so as not to damage anything. He was pretty positive that every single thing in the house, even the ashtray sitting on the end table (did Michael smoke?), was worth more than all of his and Dean’s collective belongings.  
  
He was led to a room on the first floor in the back of the house. It was rather spacious, probably three times the size of Sam’s own room. Gabriel’s bedroom held a completely different atmosphere than the rest of the house, though. Rather than artistic and natural, it felt industrial and mechanical.  
  
Posters were plastered on the wall for everything from The Beatles to Rammstein to Loki to borderline porn. The room was a mess, with clothes thrown here and there. The bed was huge and unmade. In the corner of the room was a metal wraparound desk with tons of books and papers, as well as a laptop. A needlessly huge television sat opposite the bed, surrounded by two different gaming systems and dozens of different games, movies, and electronic devices unknown to the Winchester.  
  
“Welcome to my domain,” Gabriel proclaimed, spreading out his arms. “You can pretty much do whatever you want, just don’t step on anything. I’m pretty sure there’s some fragile items under some of this stuff. Oh, and close the door behind you.”  
  
Sam warily stepped inside and did as he was asked. He continued to look around the room, too scared he really _would_ step on something if he tried to move. Meanwhile, Gabriel was trudging around his room, kicking things over whenever they were in his way. The taller one just shook his head, but still chose to remain in his position.  
  
Plopping into his chair, Gabriel opened up his laptop and began to intensely look at something on it. After a couple minutes passed, however, he glanced up and saw Sam still standing there.  
  
“Uh, what are you doing?” he asked slowly, giving Sam a weird look.  
  
“Oh, I was just, uh…” He looked around at where he was, then back up at Gabriel. “Just standing here.”  
  
“I said you could do whatever you wanted, you know.”  
  
“Yeah, I know, I just don’t want to break something,” admitted the junior rather sheepishly.  
  
Gabriel rolled his eyes so hard that his entire head moved with it. “Jesus, Sam. Play some video games or something!”  
  
“I don’t know how.”  
  
An awkward silence filled the room. Slowly, tentatively, the golden-eyed teen asked, “You… don’t know _how_?”  
  
Sam rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, we never had any video games as kids. We were lucky to even be able to watch TV. Dad’s the kind of guy that thinks all that’s evil and making America fat and whatever.”  
  
He watched as Gabe traipsed through the mountains of stuff to his bed. He flattened out the sheets to make them a little neater, then patted a spot on it.  
  
“Sit down, kiddo. You’re going to learn the wonders of Dead Space and Skyrim,” he said, and then went over to the television.  
  
Sam looked around, then carefully walked over to the bed. When he sat down, he cringed at the loud squeak it made. He could hear the older boy snickering and chose to glare at the back of his head. When Gabriel returned and sat down he held a controller for one of the gaming devices and a remote.  
  
“This is sweet. Watch this.”  
  
The giant teenager watched curiously as Gabriel began hitting different buttons on the remote. The television turned on. One of the game systems blinked and came to life. Then the speakers turned on, too, and suddenly it seemed like the polyphonic sound of the device starting up was all around them. Sam whipped his head about, trying to look for the source of the music, but then the lights turned down, and they were in darkness, except for the television. Even the light from the window was near perfectly blocked by a thick black sheet of fabric.  
  
They were soon surrounded by the echoes of a woman’s rather creepy rendition of “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” That was quickly followed by dead bodies and Sam rocking the whole bed as he jumped at the screeching sounds and the monsters. What the _hell_ was Gabriel making him watch?  
  
Oh, no. He forgot. This was a _video game_ , which meant Sam had to play and interact, rather than just sit back and mindlessly watch. So, he was given the controller, and, even with hardly any light, the Winchester could see the huge, shit-eating grin on the other’s face.  
  
After an hour had passed, the teenager realized that he wasn’t _totally_ bad. Sure, the game was set on easy, but he still had only died four or five times! That was impressive, wasn’t it? He knew Gabriel wouldn’t think it was, but that guy could kiss Sam’s ass. He thought he was doing _wonderfully_.  
  
Since he’d enjoyed the game so much (well, he didn’t enjoy the jump scares or the creepy monsters, but he was still having fun), the two boys played several more up until midnight rolled around. It wasn’t until Sam checked his phone that they realized how late it was.  
  
“Shit, we should get to bed,” he said, though not exactly ready to follow through.  
  
His host gave him a strange look, one eyebrow cocked high. “Why?”  
  
“It’s midnight, Gabe,” Sam stated matter-of-factly. “I should’ve gone to bed over an hour ago.”  
  
The comment caused the slightly older man to release a torpid chuckle, his head shaking. “ _Wow_ ,” he said, trying to keep a straight face.  
  
Sam frowned, dropping the controller onto the space of bed between them. “What do you mean, ‘wow’?”  
  
Half of Gabriel’s mouth twisted up in a smile. “I just think it’s cute that you go to bed so early. It really shows what a rebel you are.”  
  
The look of displeasure only deepened on the junior’s face. “ _I_ actually care about stuff like school and grades.”  
  
“I do, too! But I also like enjoying myself.”  
  
Sam just rolled his eyes and watched as Gabriel hit a button to turn off the television and all its related electronics. The lights slowly came back on, too, in such a way that it didn’t hurt their eyes too much. Gabriel was right; it _was_ a sweet set-up.  
  
“Where am I sleeping?” he asked.  
  
“On the floor, obviously.”  
  
Hazel eyes narrowed, staring at the other boy incredulously. “Are you serious?”  
  
“As a heart attack, my friend.” Gabriel walked over to plug in the controller and set the remote down, then made a show of flopping onto the bed and making sure his small body took up as much of the space as possible. “You wouldn’t fit anyway. You’d probably break it.”  
  
“I’m the _guest_.”  
  
“Yeah, and it’s my bed, so you can suck it.”  
  
As much as Sam liked Gabriel, he was kind of an asshole.  
  
“Well, can I get a blanket or a pillow or something?”  
  
“Sure,” the man mumbled into the fabrics of his bed. “Just go in the hall, turn right. The linen closet’s the second on the right.”  
  
Sam just stared at him and shook his head, letting out a breathy laugh. Nonetheless, he stood and followed the directions, coming back with a fleece blanket and two pillows. He cleared himself a spot on the floor, and just as he laid down, Gabe asked him to go turn off the lights. So, he got up and did so. When he returned to the floor, he realized that with the blanket pulled up under his arms, it only reached a few inches past his knees. Wonderful.  
  
As they tried to go to sleep, there was silence. The Winchester stared at the back of his eyelids for a long time, finding it hard to fall unconscious despite being incredibly tired. He wondered how Dean and Cas were doing; he hadn’t gotten any more texts from Dean, so that must be a good sign. Or they’d killed each other, thus his older brother _couldn’t_ text. As he continued to think, however, Sam was reminded of the interaction between Gabriel and Michael earlier, and he had to ask.  
  
“Hey, you up?” he started. An annoyed grunt came from somewhere above and to the right, so the teenager took that as his cue to ask. “What’s going on with your mom? She’s sick?”  
  
He heard a sigh and rustling as the small body on the bed moved to get more comfortable.  
  
“Yeah, she is. She’s been sick for a few years.”  
  
“What happened?”  
  
“Well, she was already pretty lifeless after Dad disappeared, y’know?” he began, his voice heavy and quiet. “So, when she found out she had pancreatic cancer…” There was a long pause before he went on. “She just didn’t care. She doesn’t want treatments. She doesn’t want to do anything about it. She’s gonna die any day now, and, honestly, I’m okay with that.”  
  
“You are?”  
  
“Yeah. She’s been dead for years now. At least now her body can go, too.” The silence resumed between them. After some time, Sam thought the other teenager had fallen asleep, but then he spoke up again. “Michael and Raphael are taking it pretty hard. Michael’s handling it by… Well, by being a douche, really. He yells at her a few times a week, but spends most of the time he’s not at church or school with her. Raphael’s just avoiding the problem altogether. He won’t even come home on break. And Cas… Well, I think he feels like I do. I think we’re both going to be a little happy when she goes. Whatever’s left for her after this, it sure as hell has gotta be better than now.”  
  
A few moments passed, and Sam gave a quiet, “I’m sorry.”  
  
“It’s not your fault. It’s just life, and life kind of sucks.”  
  
Those were the last words said that night. No other conversation carried on after that; it was just those words hanging in the air. Before he knew it, Sam had fallen into a dreamless sleep.


	8. The Truth About Lying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Cas are assholes to each other, but at least they're talking.

That asshole. When Sam got back, Dean was gonna… He was gonna… Well, he wasn’t sure what he was going to do right now, but Sam was gonna be sorry!  
  
He was not looking forward to explaining this to Cas; the dude was going to throw a bitchfit. They hadn’t even had dinner yet. Wasn’t Sammy supposed to be the good student who got his projects done, like, six years early? Why wasn’t he _here_?  
  
Unlike his brother, Dean had actually found the last few days to be fine. It was more than easy to deal with the new houseguest, because Dean never saw him. He still did everything for the arrogant bastard, though. He was the one who made the food. He was the one who called the doctor for check-ins. He was the one who got refills of prescriptions. Sure, Sam and Gabe did the heavy-lifting (well, more like light-lifting, because Castiel was so skinny that it was terrifying), but Dean did the important stuff.  
  
Now, though, he wasn’t really sure what to do. Dinner was almost finished, with enough to feed three people, because _Sam_ was supposed to come _back_. After staring at the food for some time, Dean decided he’d just have to save it and eat it for lunch or something.  
  
God, what a mess.  
  
When the timer rang to signal that the sauce was finished, a feeling of dread settled in the man’s stomach. He slowly took everything off the burners, and began divvying up the food between two plates. He was actually sort of impressed with himself. Sure, Dean hadn’t made the sauce from scratch or anything, but the dinner hadn’t come out of a ready-to-eat box, either. He’d actually looked up a recipe. When asked about it, the eldest Winchester told Sam and Gabriel it was because he was sick of frozen pizza and take-out (a barely believable lie at best). Sometimes he used the excuse that it was to impress Dad and get them healthier. He would never admit, though, even to himself, that it was because he was trying to help Cas.   
  
Dean was not the type of person to go looking into the specifics of any subject. If someone told him a bit of information, he just took it and went with it. If he was skeptical or interested, maybe then he’d visit a couple websites just to gather some more information, but nothing terribly extensive. However, he’d spent more time researching anxiety and depression in the last week than he had everything else in his entire life put together. He hadn’t even done this much for school projects.  
  
After reading articles upon articles, Dean found many saying that diet could affect depression and anxiety one way or another. Soda was out. A lot of fast food was out. Sadly, beer was out, and he ended up cutting up his fake ID so he wouldn’t be tempted to buy some that Cas might steal (God, had that hurt). Now, he was making fucking pasta with rabbit food and shit.   
  
When the steamed vegetables were piled onto the plate next to the sauce-covered noodles, the Winchester stared at the food as if it had committed a terrible offense. What he wouldn’t give for one goddamn cheeseburger… At least he’d bought an apple pie for dessert.  
  
With a deep breath, he grabbed one of the plates, plasticware, and napkin, then headed down to his — well, _Castiel’s_ — room. He didn’t even bother to take his own plate, because God knew that Mr. Stick-Up-His-Ass would be offended if Dean even _dared_ to eat with him. Ducking into the bathroom for a few moments, he grabbed the four medications that he needed, then knocked on the bedroom door before nudging it open.  
  
“Hey, I got your food,” he said, then stopped halfway inside. Why the fuck did Cas have a bottle of vodka on his bedside table? “Why the fuck do you have a bottle of vodka on my bedside table?”  
  
Castiel looked up, unamused, at Dean. His blue eyes went to the bottle, which was only a quarter full, and then casually returned to Dean. His face was a bit too red for the man’s liking and his eyes a little too glossy. How long had he had the damn thing?  
  
“Why are you here? Where is Sam?” the man asked.  
  
Dean took in a deep, irritated breath through his nose, clenching his jaw a moment.  
  
“Not around. Apparently he and your brother have some kind of project due tomorrow, so it’s just you and me tonight.”  
  
Castiel scoffed, eyes rolling as he leaned back against the headboard.  
  
“You still haven’t answered my question, Cas.”  
  
There was a moment of tense silence, and holy shit, Dean was going to throw all of this fucking food into that dark-haired son of a bitch’s smug face if he didn’t reply soon.  
  
Luckily (or maybe not so luckily), the bed-ridden guest finally said, “It was a gift from Meg.”  
  
“Meg?” Dean repeated, raising an eyebrow. “You mean Meg as in the girl that you were having a threesome with, complete with pot pancakes and crack-infused syrup? _That_ Meg?”  
  
“Yes, however there was no crack-infused syrup. That is a good idea, though.”  
  
The bluntness and apathy in the answer made Dean want to scream.  
  
“Has she been in my _apartment_?”  
  
“She comes by quite often, actually.”  
  
If there wasn’t food in his hands, Dean Winchester would most likely be throttling the life out of Castiel, and then when he went to jail, his one phone call would be to Sam just to say, “ _Why the fuck did you leave us alone?_ ”  
  
But there _was_ food in his hands, and he was thinking of all the time and effort he had put into making this shit, which was the only reason it wasn’t coating his guest’s face.  
  
“ _Why_?” Dean asked slowly.  
  
His hands had begun to shake and he finally went over to Cas’ side to set the food down before he dropped it. He didn’t miss the other’s slight movement away as he approached, either. Cas’ eyes sparkled with something as he stared up at Dean, pink lips pursed together in irritation.  
  
“She visits to ensure that I am all right.”  
  
The brunette rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest with a dry chuckle. “Oh, yeah. I’m sure that’s why she comes over. She bring you anything else, lover boy?”  
  
Castiel focused his bright blue gaze on Dean for a long time. He answered, “I do not believe that is any of your business.”  
  
Dean was so caught up in the absurdity of the reply that he didn’t even have time to realize how _Cas_ -like Castiel was beginning to sound.  
  
“Excuse me?” he asked, mirthless chuckle rolling off his lips as his eyebrows shot into the air. “Tell me how that _isn’t_ my business.”  
  
“It is not your business, because what I do in my spare time does not affect you.”  
  
“It does if it’s in my house.”  
  
They stared at each other for many long, uncomfortable seconds. Dean tried to calm himself down, but it was becoming harder and harder to do.  
  
“Are there drugs in here?” the man asked quietly, placing a hand over his eyes.  
  
“No.”  
  
Dean managed to respond calmly (or, rather, in a calm tone), “Cas, don’t fucking lie to me. Are there _drugs_ in my _apartment_?”  
  
There was another stretching silence before a “yes” was sighed from his guest’s mouth.  
  
“Where?”  
  
Dean went to all the spots that his old friend pointed out, finding a few different forms of treats made with weed, as well as something that looked like a bunch of tiny, weird stickers. There were a few more bottles of alcohol hidden around the room, too, as well as in the miniature fridge, and the Winchester was left wondering why Sam didn’t bother telling him that Cas was drinking.  
  
“Is that it?” Dean asked, arms full of all manner of things that could easily get him arrested. When he was finally confident in the affirmative answer, he walked out of the room.  
  
“What are you doing with all of those?” he heard Cas bellow from the bedroom, voice tinted with nervousness.  
  
“I’m destroying them,” he responded, and suddenly his ears were bombarded with curses and thumping sounds coming from the bedroom.  
  
“That’s _my_ _property_ , Dean!”  
  
“You can’t just get rid of that!”  
  
“I paid for that!”  
  
“I _need_ that!”  
  
“Dean, please, _don’t_!”  
  
Despite all of the man’s increasingly desperate pleas, the Winchester went through with his plan. He turned on the garbage disposal and water, pushing some brownies and other pastry-type items down the drain before dumping the alcohol down the sink, as well. He could hear his guest howling from across the apartment, every imaginable name and insult thrown out.  
  
When he turned off the disposal and looked up, Dean was baffled to see that Castiel had actually managed to pull himself out of bed and limp down the short hall. The look of pure outrage in those blazing blue eyes was incomparable, something that the Winchester had never seen It was nearly terrifying.  
  
“Dude, you need to go lie down. You’re gonna bust a stitch or something.” Dean said, voice a mixture of urgency and surprise.  
  
Rough, calloused hands gripped Cas’ shoulders, which were covered by one of Sam’s oversized shirts. The enraged man wrestled out of his host’s grip, however, his face bright scarlet from drink and anger. Cas gave a harsh shove to Dean’s chest, forcing to slump against the wall. One hand clasped over his ribs, covering the injured bones as if afraid they may attempt to break out.  
  
“I _paid_ for that stuff, Dean, and you just _threw it away_?” he hissed.  
  
Never in his life had Dean heard such a tone come from his friend’s mouth. It was strange and unnerving, something the green-eyed man never wanted to hear again. Still, he didn’t allow himself to back down.  
  
“ _Yes_ , Cas. I did. I’m trying to help you,” Dean answered, trying to carefully select his words. His hands were gripping the edge of the counter that he’d been shoved into, barely shaking just from the pure shock of everything. Castiel had never acted this way. The Cas he knew would never have _dreamed_ of acting this way.  
  
“If you want to help me, then _don’t_ destroy my property,” Castiel snarled. His voice had dropped, low and menacing. “Have you not created enough trouble in my life?”  
  
Dean’s head barely shook in disbelief. He pursed his lips and released a soft, angry chuckle. “What happened to you?” he asked quietly.  
  
“Life. And _you_.”  
  
Dean bit his lip, breathing in deeply through his nose. A few days ago, that would have been enough to start the guilt setting in. Right now, though? It just fueled his growing fury, causing it to well up inside him like a balloon.  
  
“You better pay me back for all that shit you just got rid of. That all probably cost five-hundred dollars,” Cas went on.  
  
 _He’s drunk_ , Dean told himself. _Send him back to bed. Let him sleep this off and talk about it in the morning_.  
  
“Go back to the room. You need to eat and take your medicine,” he sighed, running a hand through his hair.  
  
Castiel shook his head. “Give me my money.”  
  
“I’m not giving you jack _shit_ ,” the man shot back, voice not as calm as he would have liked. “Go back to the room.”  
  
Blue eyes flashed, and the injured man surged forward as if to grab Dean. One step in, however, and he gave a gasp of pain, crumpling to the ground, huddled over his cast-covered leg with his arms hugging his sides. Dean was quick to kneel next to him. He placed his hands on the man’s bony shoulders, and ducked his head in an attempt to see the other’s face. He was quickly shrugged off, however, Castiel pressing a hand to Dean and moving him back.  
  
“I don’t need your help,” he snapped, though it sounded less intimidating when the violent coughing fit was added.  
  
“Yes, you _do_.” Dean was growing impatient, and his temper was about to peak.  
  
“If you want to help me, how about you go back five years in time and not fucking abandon me?”  
  
And that was it. Dean couldn’t take it anymore. He _refused_ to take it anymore. He grabbed Castiel by the front of his shirt and shoved him back against the wall, his forearm across the man’s chest to keep him pinned. He barely noticed the soft grunt and whimper of pain.  
  
“You know what, Cas? I am _sick_ of your guilt-tripping _bullshit_!” He was yelling, his voice loud enough to practically rattle the walls. He was inches from Cas’ flinching face, and probably spitting on him, but Dean didn’t care. He needed to make sure the man understood. When he went on through clenched teeth, the volume of his voice had lessened, but it still held the same intensity and anger.  
  
“I _know_ I fucked up. Of all the people in the world, _I know_. So, I don’t need you to constantly point it out and give me crap. I’m _trying_ to help you. I’m _trying_ to make things better, but you gotta let me. All this bitching and moaning isn’t going to do shit. So you need to shut up, go in there and eat the goddamn dinner I just made, and let me fucking help you!”  
  
The silence seemed to drag on forever. Dean’s shoulders were rising and falling sharply with his breaths, and he barely loosened his hold on Cas. The pinned man just stared up at Dean, the glossy hues of his eyes never betraying whatever it was that he felt. He still looked annoyed and angry, even with Dean, almost literally, breathing down his neck.  
  
After several moments, he saw something change. Castiel’s shoulders shrugged as much as Dean’s arm allowed. The annoyance and anger washed off of his face, replaced with what most would think to be apathy. The green-eyed man knew better, though. This man he had pushed against the wall had been his best friend for many years. Even if some time had passed since they’d been together, he still knew the signs to look for, such as the subtle creases formed around his eyes or how the outer edges of his brows would dip down a centimeter or so. It meant that Cas was upset.  
  
The fact that his friend was sad actually made the Winchester feel better. He watched the other’s chin dip down, and soon all Dean could see was a mess of dark hair. He allowed his arm to fall away from the man’s chest, and the two sat there for a moment. When he’d felt that he’d allowed enough time to pass, he sighed and placed an arm across Cas’ shoulders, helping him to his feet. The man didn’t protest this time, just hung his head dejectedly and allowed himself to be led slowly back to the bedroom and onto the mattress.  
  
Dean left the room, then returned with a folding chair that had been meant for the dining table he’d never purchased. He placed it right next to Castiel’s bed, and then grabbed the food and pills off of the end table.  
  
“You need to eat,” Dean said, pushing the plate and utensils into his friend’s lap. His tone was more resigned now, nothing like what it had been before.  
  
The man just stared at the food, though, and gave a slight frown. “I’m not hungry,” he replied, sounding equally as tired as Dean.  
  
“You have to eat, Cas. The medications say you have to take them with food,” he sighed. “Besides, you’re skin and bones. You actually look kinda scary, dude.”  
  
Blue eyes examined the food for a long time, before he finally began to take slow, unenthused bites of the pasta. His brows raised slightly at the taste, and he glanced for just a second at the man who was sitting next to him. When he saw that his friend was eating, Dean opened the different medicine bottles, and dropped the appropriate amount of pills on the plate.  
  
“I’ll go get you some water.”  
  
Dean returned a minute later with the drink and his own dinner. too. He wasn’t going to let either of them eat alone tonight. Castiel took the glass with a nod, then swallowed his pills. While the two ate, the guest didn’t say anything. He kept his head bowed and stared at his plate, which was slowly becoming empty. Despite saying he wasn’t hungry, Cas still managed to eat everything that had been given to him.  
  
“The meal was very good. Thank you,” he said quietly. Dean just nodded, still picking at his own. He’d barely touched it. Castiel finally looked up when he didn’t hear a response, then dropped his head again with a sigh. “I will tell Meg not to come here anymore.”  
  
Dean mumbled out a “thanks.”  
  
The television droned quietly in the background, left on from earlier. It was the only sound for half an hour, but no one looked at it. Dean continued to pick at his food. When he’d finally resigned himself to the reality that he wouldn’t be finishing it, he set it down on the nightstand. He finally drew up the courage to look up at Cas and ask the question.  
  
“You asked why I left, right?”  
  
The words startled the guest, and his head turned sharply to look at Dean. Cerulean eyes were wide with anticipation and surprise. He took in a deep breath and gave the slightest nod to urge the other on.  
  
“Well…” He had to turn away his gaze, staring at the CNN news report on the television. His voice was slow and measured as he carefully chose his phrasing. “It’s hard… To really put it into words, y’know? It’s not much of an excuse, but it was what I was thinking at the time, and...” Dean swallowed. He’d never said this out loud before. In fact, he rarely voiced apologies and explanations for his actions with sincere regret. It was always snarky, sarcastic, and arrogant. But not tonight. Cas deserved the truth; he’d deserved the truth five years ago. Now, it was finally time to let him have it.  
  
“I was scared out of my mind about telling you. I guess… I don’t know, you were my best friend. We always said crap about how we were going to be ‘friends forever,’ and all that other dorky shit. I didn’t want to tell you we were moving, because I knew you’d get upset. And I knew – or, I guess, _thought_ I knew – that we weren’t going to come back. You know me, Cas. I don’t keep friends. I was lucky enough to have you at the time.” He licked his lips, looking at his lap and clasped hands. “I didn’t want to go through the process of losing you. I _knew_ I should tell you, but I was being… I guess I was being selfish.” He let out a quiet, self-deprecating laugh. “Okay, yeah, I was _definitely_ being selfish. But… I don’t know. I guess I thought that if I left, we would stop being friends. We wouldn’t talk, and then I’d have lost you, too. At least if I lied, then I could pretend that whenever I came back, we’d be where we left off – friends, y’know?”  
  
Castiel had watched Dean carefully through his speech. It was a rare occasion that he was going to remember. When the speech finally died off, though, he looked at his knees sticking up beneath the comforter and allowed his hands to rest there. His face was still red and his eyes were still glossy, but his expression was sober.  
  
“I think I am going to go to bed,” he said, voice measured and low. He took a deep breath through his nose, slowly exhaling. “Thank you for the dinner, Dean.”  
  
The Winchester swallowed, then rubbed a hand over his eyes and through his hair. “Yeah. That sounds good,” he managed.  
  
Dean stood up and grabbed his plate and the medicine bottles. Closing the door quietly, he left the room without another word. The pills were returned to their proper place, and he made a mental note of how many were in each bottle. He put all the leftovers of dinner into a plastic container, which was then stored in the fridge. He stared at the apple pie that was left on the kitchen counter, but he put it back in the box and stored it. He couldn’t eat it right now.  
  
Deciding he might as well sleep, too, he plopped himself down on the couch, grabbing the blanket off the back and covering himself with it. Well, at least he’d managed to finally get it out. Obviously, it’d been a mistake; Cas was pissed. He had to be, because why else wouldn’t he say anything? But Dean could understand. He could understand, because he knew that he’d feel exactly the same if the roles were reversed. What he’d done had been weak, cowardly, and selfish. If Cas wanted to be mad about that, then that was perfectly acceptable. Dean deserved it. As he fell asleep, though, he hoped that maybe the man who had once been his best friend might be able to forgive him.


	9. Little Earthquakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe it's time for Castiel to start making a change.

When Castiel awoke, the house was empty. He slowly pushed himself up into a sitting position and looked at the bedside table, where there was a plate of lukewarm breakfast and a bottle of aspirin. He released a soft groan, putting his hands over his face as his brain pulsed inside his skull. He felt like he'd been hit by a wrecking ball. Everything hurt: his head, his ribs, his leg. Yet, as he'd learned on day one, there were no pills in the entire apartment. Dean must have either hidden them or taken them with him to work, because Castiel had torn apart the entire place searching. The guest was honestly surprised that he'd been left with aspirin. It was definitely a step-up.

He swallowed four, not bothering to take a drink with them. They weren't the worst tasting pills he'd ever had in his mouth. The food remained untouched, though. His stomach wasn't going to allow it. A check of the alarm clock said it was nine forty-seven. Meg would be over at ten-thirty.

The young man gave another moan as he hoisted himself out of bed, cast thudding as he got to his feet. Wobbling over, he managed to grab the barely used crutches in the corner of the room, fitting them beneath his arms. They were incredibly awkward, and Cas knew that the likelihood of him falling was high. He'd never done sports as a kid. He'd never done anything dangerous. Injuries were, generally, a mystery to him. Before this, the worst he'd ever gotten was a fist to the eye, and that had taken three weeks to heal. He'd much rather have that, though; at least with a black eye he could still go out.

He used the bathroom, which was normally the extent of his morning activities. As he was leaving, he became distracted by his reflection. He stopped and took a step closer to get a better look.

It was awful. Castiel's dark hair was sticking up in all directions. It was the longest it had ever been, too, brushing past his eyebrows and the nape of his neck. Dark bags constantly tugged at his bloodshot eyes. His chin was brushed with deep brown from growing, untamed stubble, though it helped to hide the hollowness of his cheeks.

As he stared at the reflected countenance, he tried to recall what it had looked like a year ago, three years ago, five years ago. Pale fingers tentatively came up to his ears, which no longer had rings or studs in them. They hadn't for two weeks, and he could feel the beginnings of the healing process. They'd be easy enough to fix, though; he just needed a needle. He normally felt self-conscious without his piercings. They were missing from his ears, his brow, his hips. He didn't like it, but he also didn't have so much as a pin to stick in them. Everything was at his house. Perhaps he could call Meg and ask her—

 _I will tell Meg not to come here anymore_. His own words echoed softly in his head. He needed to call her. The mere notion, however, was unnerving. Not seeing Meg again meant not getting any more drugs or alcohol or sex. It meant that he'd be left alone in his head without distraction. He would have to deal with the thoughts and the memories. He would have to remember all the words he'd said and those that had been said to him. He would have to feel the shame and guilt of everything he had done and become. It meant that he'd have no way to—

He was shaking. Castiel quickly sat down on the edge of the bathtub, knowing he'd fall over if he tried to remain standing. Once seated, he bowed his head down as far as he could, ignoring the tearing, shrieking pain from his ribs and spleen. His heart slammed over and over again into his chest. It was like a prisoner, frantically beating against the walls of a cell, screeching and wailing for release.

The young man suddenly couldn't breathe. The air was being squeezed out of his lungs, and he was left gasping like a fish out of water. His face was screwed up in fear and pain as he racked his brain for what he was supposed to do. It was usually easy to make the panic attacks go away; some beer or weed, and he'd be set, lost in a contented stupor. But here, he had nothing. Dean had destroyed everything that had been keeping him sane, and now it felt like there was a fire blazing in his head, ripping his mind to shreds with fury, outrage, and unbridled terror.

He couldn't hear the front door open or the condescending voice regarding him over the howling in his ears. He was aware, however, of the tears falling in rivers down his face. Someone sat next to him on the bath, lazily wrapping an arm around him and patting his shoulder. Several minutes later, he finally came down. He was able to take long, shuddering breaths. The shrieking in his head subsided. The pounding in his chest calmed to a gentle rhythm. He was left shaking with his eyes closed, trying to rub away the evidence of his sobbing.

"Damn. You haven't had one like that in a long time." Her voice was as cool and collected as always.

It was a couple more minutes before Castiel was able to get a handle on himself. Finally, he sat up straight, taking a deep breath, and observed the woman beside him.

Weakly, he whispered, "Hello, Meg."

She gave a small smile, though it didn't follow through to her eyes. It rarely did. He could recall only a handful of times when he thought he'd seen her truly smile, and that was usually after her lips had caressed a bottle of liquor or the end of a joint. She had her own type of beauty about her, which Cas had often appreciated in the midst of sex or one of their daily baking sessions. She had a round face and a body made of curves. Meg's eyes were deep-set, and he had never seen them when they weren't holding arrogant condescension or anger. They were much like her lips, which were always turned up in a self-satisfied smile.

Coherency was returning to him. Castiel furrowed his brows suddenly and asked, "How were you able to get inside the apartment? The front door should have been locked."

Dark eyes rolled in their sockets. "You don't get to being one of the best dealers in town without learning how to pick a couple locks." She waited, expecting a chuckle of some sort, then peered suspiciously at her partner. "Come on, angel. You need to relax."

She stood up and grabbed the crutches, which were sprawled across the floor. Turning, she offered a hand to Cas, but he didn't take it. He didn't even look at it. She released an irritated sigh and stared disdainfully at him.

"What's your problem?"

Cas finally lifted his eyes, carefully examining her. He was always surprised by how put-together she looked. It was a generally accepted stereotype that those involved with drugs dressed poorly and failed to take care of themselves. Meg, on the other hand, was quite the opposite. Her dark brown hair was always neatly styled in waves and slight curls, falling around her shoulders. Today, she was just as well-dressed as she was any other day, with a leather jacket, tight jeans, and tall, loud heels that announced her entrance when she walked into a room.

He licked his lips, still shaking in the aftermath of his anxiety. How long had he been sitting there that she had already arrived at the apartment? Castiel now wondered if he should even bring it up. Dean didn't have to know. He could just tell Meg not to leave anything here, and that would work perfectly.

But he couldn't do that.

"Could we," he had to stop, clearing his throat to try to stop it from quivering. In a steadier tone, he asked, "Could we speak? Out in the living room?"

Her dark eyes continued to inspect him, obvious suspicion lining her face. With some reluctance, she handed him his crutches, and the two departed to sit in the much more comfortable living room. Once Cas had sat down, Meg made a show of stretching and then sprawling out next to him, allowing her feet to rest in his lap.

"Are you going to tell me why you haven't been putting out?" Meg asked curiously, raising a brow as she peered over her breasts to stare at him. "Not that I probably can't make a fairly good guess about that."

The young man stared at her curiously, furrowing his brows. It wasn't that he was wondering about the question itself; it was true that they hadn't had sex or intimately touched one another since he'd come to Dean's house. It was, rather, the statement that followed it.

"What do you mean?" he asked, honestly having no idea what she might be thinking.

Meg rolled her eyes again, folding her arms to rest beneath her head. "You've started talking like you did when we first met. All... formal and whatnot. You went months without a panic attack until your old boyfriend showed up. And now you're living in his apartment. It's not that hard to put two and two together."

Her satisfied smirk was directly proportional to the redness of Cas' face. He cast quick glances away from her, his mouth opening for a few seconds without making any words.

"I-I don't… Dean was not, he was not my boyfriend," he stuttered. "I would never even be… _interested_ in a relationship with another man. That would be an abom—"

Sharp, biting laughter cut him short. Meg was grinning, shaking her head before propping herself up on her hands, boots still nestled in his lap.

"Don't even try, Castiel. That's part of the reason I liked you. It was a challenge." He quickly looked away from her, staring at the ground with mild horror. "I mean, you're a lot easier to get in the sack when you're high as a kite. Not to mention all of that gay fear you're rockin' seems to make you think you can just fuck the gay away. But you get loose lips when you're drunk. I've heard all about him. All about you and your family issues."

He was absolutely mortified. When Meg realized he wasn't going to respond, she lifted her legs from him and sat closer. She wrapped an arm around his shoulders, letting her fingers run carelessly through his unruly hair.

"I don't know why you'd want to go back to him, though. He would just break your heart again. Up and leave without telling you, and do it to you _all over_ again," she purred, blood-red lips just an inch from his ear.

"I don't… I don't want to go back – there's nothing to go back _to_ ," he stated firmly, though he still wouldn't let his eyes fall on her.

"Oh, Castiel… If you really believe that, then you're more oblivious than I thought. Then again, that's _another_ thing that I liked about you when we met."

Castiel knew that. He remembered when he and Meg had begun sleeping together and how she'd give a dark laugh after a climax, petting him and calling him her "sweet, little angel." He knew that was the only reason their relationship had ever started. At the beginning, he had been timid, nervous, and religious; she had wanted nothing more than to break him down, corrupt him and wash him in sin. What a wonderful job she had done.

"I… I am _not_ gay, Meg," he reasserted, but the slight anger in his voice didn't help him sound any more confident in that statement.

"And _I'm_ not a heartless bitch," she chuckled

The young woman ruffled his hair and it felt like two years ago, when she was teaching him how to roll a joint or how to properly mix drinks. She had never been just his dealer. When she had come into his life, she had stayed there, aiding in the quick erosion of his morals and ethics. It had been easy. He had been so broken at the time that he would have done anything just to give up feeling angry or scared or depressed, or just _feeling_ in general. It had been a cinch to tempt her favorite angel into falling down to her level.

Castiel took in a deep, shaking breath, closing his eyes briefly as he felt her breath softly falling on his ear and neck. "I do not wish to see you anymore."

When he looked at her at last, her expression hadn't changed. There was no surprise or outrage; she was just _Meg_.

"Be careful what you wish for, pretty boy," she whispered in his ear. "If you really mean that, then you know what that means, don't you?" Despite his nod, she went on, "No more booze to make you forget your problems. No more drugs to make you not care. No more sex to try to convince yourself you're not a _fag_."

Any other time, and he would certainly have been angry. He always got angry when someone called him that. He hated that word. He had never hated something as much as he hated that _single word_. But right now he was still reeling in the aftershock of a serious bout of anxiety, the first one in over three months. He couldn't muster up the energy to be upset, because he was too busy being terrified.

"I understand that," he breathed, voice shaking again.

"If you tell me to leave, you're going to have a hard time getting me back, you know?" Her fingers gripped his hair tightly, and she pressed her lips just beneath his ear. "I will always take you back, of course. You'll just have to get on your knees and grovel, but I'm sure you wouldn't mind."

Castiel swallowed the growing lump in his throat. He tried to nod, but the tight grip on the back of his head stopped him. Instead, he repeated, "I understand."

"Knowing all that, you still want me to leave?"

He was quiet for a long time. The man struggled silently in his mind for an answer. Staying with Meg would be easy. He could go back to his normal routine, return to a life where Dean existed only on the fringes of his mind and all he knew was high-induced serenity. If he sent her away, though, he wouldn't have that comfort. He wouldn't be able to feel like that ever again. He would have to face his problems head on, and he wasn't sure if he could do that.

Besides, what reason was there to stop? If he did, then he could see his family again, but they wouldn't want him back. Michael had been very clear about that. Sure, there was Gabriel, but his youngest brother was probably only visiting out of pity. Once Cas was better, they would go back to never seeing each other.

He would be healthier, but he couldn't care less about the state of his body, because he couldn't care less if he lived or died.

He could become part of the "real world," but being swallowed up by the joys of marijuana, LSD, and alcohol was almost always wonderful.

_Don't you wonder why Dean threw all of those things away?_

The bitter part of him wanted to say it was because the man just enjoyed seeing Castiel in pain, but even _he_ knew that was a stupid argument. A more likely answer was that he simply didn't want the substances in his house, since they could get him arrested. That idea, however, was shot down, as well. Dean hadn't made a fuss when Cas had brought over the drinks for their dinner, and when they had gotten into their argument, the other man had sounded angry and _hurt_ when he had pointed out what Castiel had become.

But that was probably just wishful thinking. He just _wanted_ Dean to care about him, so he convinced himself that he'd heard it. He'd been drunk, anyway, so who knew what had _really_ happened? The man had probably just been using it to distract from Castiel's insistence at knowing why he'd left. He simply hadn't wanted to talk about that, so he'd changed the subject. But if he hadn't wanted to talk about it, why had he then brought it up last night?

" _Cas_. You there?"

He was pulled from his thoughts by Meg's intrusive voice. Blue eyes turned and looked into the dark ones that held nothing but slightly annoyed curiosity. She had pulled away from his ear, though her fingers continued twirling around his long hair. Right. He was supposed to be deciding if he wanted her to leave or not.

"Could you… Could you give me a few days?" he asked slowly.

She shrugged, "If I'm in the mood…"

"Meg, _please_." Castiel grabbed her shoulder, staring intensely at her. He knew he sounded desperate, but it wasn't a decision he was ready to make. He needed time alone to sort through his thoughts. He needed to actually _think_ , for the first time in years.

She huffed, glancing to the ceiling. " _Fine_ ," she conceded. The woman got to her feet abruptly, strutting to the kitchen island and grabbing a large purse from it. "You've got my number. If I don't hear from you, I'll assume you're out," said Meg, walking to the door with her usual air of aloofness. "See you around, Castiel."

And then she was gone.

Cas sat on that couch for what felt like ages. When he leaned his head back, his eyes fluttered closed. He was pretty sure that he drifted to sleep once or twice. He was barely slumbering in those moments, however, as he noticed the gradual transitions between consciousness and unconsciousness.

In his waking minutes, he thought about the crux of the matter at hand. It would be a lie to say that he had never thought about doing this before. He'd contemplated giving it all up, but they were thoughts often crushed by another round of drinks or another pass of Mary Jane. Now that he had time to actually focus on it, without any of the distraction, it was difficult. If he analyzed it for too long, he would start to feel the beginnings of another panic attack, and then had to quickly revert to a different train of thought to stop it.

First, he reflected on Meg's reaction to the whole thing. Though it had surprised him, it seemed at the same time to be totally like her. She never cared about anyone else but herself. The young dealer always did what was in her own best interest; if that happened to overlap with someone else's, it was a happy coincidence. That was part of the reason that Cas had been attracted to her. She was devoid of emotional attachment, and thus he was, as well. She didn't care who she slept with as long as they were clean. She didn't care who she sold to as long as it brought her money. She was completely self-centered.

So, he should not have been surprised by her exit. Castiel's staying or going would have no impact on her. Perhaps she would prefer to keep him, because she already knew that he didn't have some sexual disease (he only slept with whomever she brought with her, and she was beautifully careful) and how he functioned, but he would be easy to replace. Besides, she'd already ripped the wings off of her angel; now that they were gone, he wasn't as much fun to play with.

At some point, he heard the sound of the door opening. Sam wasn't due home until three. Was it really that late already? However, as he craned his neck around, he saw that it wasn't Sam, after all. Dean poked his head in suspiciously, green eyes carefully scanning the apartment before landing on Cas. Cerulean eyes quickly averted the gaze, choosing instead to stare at his own lap and gnarled, bony hands.

"Hey, Cas." The words sounded timid and cautious, as if Dean were testing him.

"Hello, Dean." The young man was able to form his reply with a steady, even voice, though it was quiet. He heard the door close and the other man wander the apartment. He tentatively went on, "You are home early."

"Bobby gave me an extra half-hour for lunch. Thought you might want some company," came the nonchalant answer.

 _Or you just wanted to make sure Meg wasn't here_ , Castiel thought. He did not voice that idea, though. Instead, he stayed silent. He wasn't sure what else to say to that. As he continued to stare at his hands, he noticed they were trembling. It wasn't from an impending, anxious breakdown this time, though. It was a reminder of how long it had been since he'd had alcohol. It must have been something like sixteen hours, if Dean was here on his lunch break. By this time, he was usually wasted in more ways than one, but he hadn't touched a drop today (not that there was actually anything _to_ drink, after Dean dumped it all down the sink).

"I was wondering, Cas… Do you think you'd want to go out?" That caught the man's attention. His head snapped up to stare at Dean, surprise obviously written on his face. The Winchester wasn't looking, though, instead rifling through a bag of groceries he'd brought with him. "There's a place just down the street I thought we could go. I'm sure you've probably got some cabin fever, staying in here all the time, and it's really nice out, y'know, for October."

By the time Dean looked over, the initial surprise had washed from his guest's face. Castiel licked his lips and looked away again. Perhaps that would be pleasant. After a moment, he allowed his head to dip into a nod, throat humming with a semblance of agreement.

"Great. I'll get the wheelchair."

Dark brows furrowed, he watched Dean walk to the bedroom and return with a crappy, plastic wheelchair that they'd gotten from the hospital. As he gently fingered his injured ribs, he pondered the other man's newly bright tone. Had his answer really been so satisfying? The wheelchair was brought over and unfolded. The man didn't make any attempt to help Cas, though, and Cas couldn't say he blamed him. After his attempt to aid last night, Dean was probably a bit wary of the skinny and injured guest.

With shaking limbs, Castiel managed to load himself into the seat. He didn't need to bother with washing up or changing; it was not like it ever really mattered. He craned his neck to try and look up at Dean, but as soon as their eyes met, Dean left, retreating to the bedroom. He came back a few moments later, though, bearing a forest green jacket.

"It's kinda cold out. You might want this."

He handed it to Cas, whose quivering hands gently clenched it and pulled it on over Sam's shirt. If Dean noticed the tremors, he didn't say anything. Instead, he grabbed the handles of the wheelchair, and they left the apartment in silence.

It was, indeed, a nice day. The sky was an incredible shade of blue, accented by the bright sun and wisps of white clouds. Castiel found that the air that engulfed him was a rather pleasant temperature, but the occasional wind caused him to shiver and clutch Dean's jacket around himself. He closed his eyes, relaxing slightly at the feeling of sun falling on his skin and the sound of birds chirping and cars quietly rolling by.

His reverie was broken when they came to a stop a few minutes later. They were outside a café, which caused blue eyes to snap up to his host in confusion. Dean Winchester eating at a _café_? The home-cooked meals were weird enough, but _this_ …

Dean rolled him up to the counter so that he could see the menu printed on the wall. "They've got some good food here, Cas, so feel free to order whatever you want," he said. He tore his gaze away from the list of food to look down at Cas nestled comfortably in the wheelchair and his jacket, flashing a smile.

They ordered their food, and Castiel couldn't help noticing how miserable Dean sounded when he ordered his "garden burger with a water to drink, thanks." Cas ended up getting a baguette and soup, the only things he thought he might actually be able to keep in his stomach. Though there was plenty of seats within the restaurant, Dean rolled him outside. He made a big deal about making sure Cas was seated in the sun, despite the helpless man's insistence on getting a table with an umbrella.

When Dean sat down, the other decided that he might as well not argue. He didn't want to stress. If he did, he'd start panicking again, and he didn't want to do that out in public and _especially_ not in front of Dean. Cas ended up staring at him, instead, confused. The man's green eyes were glaring at the glass of water between his palms like it was some sort of tasteless devil. His pink lips were tight (he remembered teasing Dean when they were kids about how the boy looked like he was wearing lipstick), and his eyebrows were pulled together in thought.

Castiel breathed a contented sigh and looked out at the street. On the other side of the road, there was a park. It was barely inhabited, mostly by young mothers and their children, who were kicking up dirt and rolling down slides. The trees' leaves gently swayed with the wind, some falling away and being carried with the breeze so as to paint the ground brown and orange. He couldn't remember the last time he'd just sat outside. After all, a hit of acid was all it took to feel like he was riding on the wings of a massive, black bird or swallowed up by a suffocating lake. However, Cas could not remember a single time when he'd taken the drug and then felt goose bumps rise on his pale skin or the jovial warmth of sun. There had never been that much comforting detail.

While they wait for their food, the two enjoyed the chirps of birds, rumbles of car engines, and laughter of children. It was peaceful, and Cas didn't realize when his lips lifted into the ghost of a long-forgotten smile or when the grass-colored eyes watched him. Ten minutes passed before their meals were brought to them, and they each thanked the waitress.

Cas was quick to dive in, surprised at how hungry he suddenly was and the fact that his hands had stopped shaking. His head hurt with a gently pounding headache that was demanding even just a single drop of liquor. He tried to drive it away with a long sip of water, despite knowing it wouldn't work. He raised his eyes to look at Dean, but the man hadn't even touched the burger. He wasn't even sure if it should be called that, though, because it was made out of a tofu patty, which was probably why Dean was staring morosely at the thing. It was a disgrace of a burger.

"If you don't want it, Dean, you should take it back and get something else," Castiel told him after finishing a bite of his bread.

The other continued to stare at it, then tried to look less disgusted when he glanced up at his friend.

"I'm going to eat it," he replied bitterly. "I'm just… working up to it."

Cas rolled his eyes and breathed in deeply. " _Dean_ ," he said, a bit more sharply this time, but the man interrupted with a grunt. He picked up the sandwich and gave it a good, hard look, as if he were gathering up the courage to eat it. "It's not poison," Cas muttered. Dean shot him a glare, then daringly took a huge bite.

That had been a bad idea. The man let out a low groan, accompanied by a rather amusing face as he slammed the sandwich back onto the plate. He finished what was in his mouth with large, open-mouthed bites, trying to avoid having it on his tongue for too long. When he finally swallowed, he gasped and violently shook his head.

"That tasted like… like _crap_. Mushy, meat-colored _crap_ ," he bemoaned.

A grin had been working its way across Castiel's face, and the comment set him off. A light, airy laugh escaped him, and he actually threw his head back, one hand resting over his stomach. It was like he'd just seen the most hilarious thing in the world, and Dean couldn't help but join him in the laughter. A minute passed, and they both calmed down. A sickly thin hand wiped across blue eyes, banishing the tiny tears that had cropped up. When he'd been reduced to soft chuckling, a grin was still beaming on Cas' face.

"You're such a pansy," he teased.

That made Dean practically giggle, and then his green eyes were resting on Cas.

Sitting in his wheelchair, the man suddenly felt extremely uncomfortable. He couldn't move out of the gaze or look elsewhere without being massively obvious, so he was forced to just stare back. It was an odd expression that Cas vaguely recognized, but he cynically refused to believe it was what every fiber of his being was telling him.

It was the same look that Dean had given his brother when the youngest Winchester came home from third grade with a drawing of his family, which consisted of Sam, Dean, John, and their mother Mary, who had donned wings and a halo. It was the same look that Dean had given several photographs when he and Cas had found an old shoebox full of them in the basement of the Winchester house. It was the same look Dean had given Castiel the last day they'd seen each other and said, " _You're a good friend… Thanks for putting up with me_."

It was, undoubtedly, fondness.

"Why are you doing this, Dean?" Even the one who asked the question couldn't figure out the tone. It was a strange mish-mash of curious, accusatory, hopeful, and upset, all equally coloring the words.

Dean was either playing dumb or sincerely didn't understand when he asked, "What do you mean?"

"The food, Dean. I am going to assume you were not eating like this before I came to stay with you," the other explained patiently.

The man raised his head slightly, nodding. "Oh," he muttered. Cas could see him trying to cook up a lie, so he took another bite of his baguette to hold his tongue. "I just… I thought you were a nice excuse for us to eat healthier."

"Why?"

"Well, you should eat things that are actually nutritious or whatever when you're recovering. Help the healing process, y'know?"

Cas stared at the other with immense scrutiny, and it was Dean's turn to squirm.

"There's more to it," he stated flatly, leaning back in his wheelchair. "I knew you for fifteen years, Dean Winchester. I know when you're lying, and I know when you're holding back. Please, do not treat me like some common acquaintance."

Their eyes were locked for a long time, and Castiel could tell that the other was struggling with something. He was deciding whether or not to tell Cas the truth, most likely. He wouldn't, though. He would make up an excuse. He would blow it off. He would tell a joke or make a pop culture reference, because that was what Dean did. That was what Dean _always_ did, and now wasn't going to be—

"I looked into your meds."

Oh. Cas looked struck, shock written all over his face. "You what?"

Dean shifted in his seat and suddenly decided that his Burger from Vegan Hell was really interesting and delicious. He took another bite, scowling at the taste as he forced it down his gullet, and then set it back down.

"When I went and got your meds, Sam recognized them and told me that they were… He told me what they were for. So, I looked up some, uh, some _stuff_ that I thought might be helpful to your situation."

It was funny that Dean looked so embarrassed over that. He wouldn't look at Cas, choosing instead to stare at the park across the way. However, it all made sense now. The afflicted had done his own research when he'd first been struggling. He knew a person's food choice could affect symptoms. Drugs and alcohol were definitely supposed to be out... His eyes drifted to the sky, squinting to look at the sun and clouds. And sitting in sunlight was supposed to give a person special vitamins or something, and thus help with depression.

He couldn't help but smile slightly. There was still a part of him that wanted to hate Dean. He wanted to blame the man for all of his problems: for Michael, for being kicked out, for the drugs, for the alcohol, for the depression, for the anxiety. But right now, he just felt happy to hear that answer and to feel like his best friend from long ago still cared about him. Instead of questioning it further, Castiel left it at that and asked his friend how his day was going. He asked about working for Bobby. He asked about getting reacquainted with the city. They carried on a conversation like two normal people without the aid of beer. It was a wonderful change, for once, and Cas couldn't remember the last time he'd had such a conversation with _anyone_.

Dean managed to finish his meal, while the other was very excited to have managed to eat a third of his bread and half of his bowl of soup. When he proclaimed that he was done, green eyes glared disapprovingly at him.

"Come on, you can eat more than that. We went over this; you're skin and bones" Dean gestured at his friend. "Eat up. I'll wait."

Castiel shook his head, though, placing a hand on his stomach. "I can't, Dean. I am, honestly, completely full. That's the largest meal I've had in awhile."

"You ate everything last night. And every other night."

Castiel rolled his eyes. "Last night was an exception. And I usually only have a few bites; I give the rest to Sam." When Dean continued to stare at him, he added, "I will also get sick if I continue to eat. My body is not accustomed to having so much food... At least, not while I'm... You know, not high."

The man's gaze finally lightened, and he nodded as if he understood. He didn't push the issue any further than that, but Cas could see the cogs turning in Dean's brain. He was scheming something, but the messy-haired man wasn't sure what. A breeze kicked up, and he pulled Dean's jacket closer around him, popping up the collar to protect his neck. That seemed to be the cue to go, so Dean threw away their plates and wheeled Cas back to the apartment.

When they reached the bedroom, the injured man allowed his friend to help him get into the bed. They said their goodbyes. Dean informed him when he'd be home. Then, he left. Cas' hands began trembling shortly afterward.


	10. Defining Happiness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Affection is responsible for nine-tenths of whatever solid and durable happiness there is in our lives.” – C.S. Lewis

When Sam and Gabriel came home, Castiel wanted nothing to do with them. He was buried in his bed, beneath mountains of sheets and comforters and pillows. His head hurt in a way he couldn’t describe and everything was pissing him off. He almost punched his younger brother when the blonde tried to pull the covers off of him. The high schoolers took that as their cue to leave.

Cas had nightmares for the first time in ages. Apparently, today was perfect for that kind of stuff. After Dean’s departure, when his shaking hands and headache had become too much to deal with, Cas had tried taking a nap, which only made everything worse. He didn’t have another panic attack, though, so there was at least one highlight to his afternoon. There were plenty of times where he thought about leaving the apartment to get a beer or crawling back to Meg and begging for a drink, but he managed to talk himself out of everything. However, he wasn’t sure how long that would last.

Dean came in about an hour or so after his brother, looking rather suspicious. Cas didn’t even notice his entrance; he was still surrounded in a mess of fabric. The guest _did_ notice the man, though, when he could feel something _jabbing_ him. Anger welled up in his chest, and he tried to lash out, yelling muffled threats through the pillow before he finally poked his head out to see who was bothering him.

“What’s up with you, Grumpy?” Dean asked, brows raised in amusement.

Cas’ hair was more of a mess than it usually was, and his face was screwed up in irritation.

“I have a headache and want to sleep,” he grumbled.

He meant to bury his head back into the covers, but Dean reached down and grabbed him by the collar. The bed-ridden man whimpered in exasperation rather than pain as Dean forced him to sit up. Castiel suddenly felt uncomfortable as green eyes flicked to the jacket he was still wearing from lunch. Nonetheless, he grabbed the lapels and pulled it closer to his body before crossing his arms over his chest.

“ _What_ , Dean?” and there was more than a little bite to the two words.

“Sam and Gabe said you were being cranky and sent me in to investigate,” the Winchester replied, a smirk playing on his lips. “They’re pretty interested in finding out what happened last night; I think they’re just surprised we didn’t kill each other.”

Cas half-heartedly rolled his eyes. “Well, it looked like that was gonna be the case for awhile there.”

A slight smile crept onto Dean’s face, and he shook his head. “Yeah, it definitely did.” He took a moment to pause, standing next to the bed and looking nowhere in particular. A few seconds passed, and he asked, “So, what’s up with you?”

The guest sighed, lying back down on the bed. “I haven’t had a drink in almost twenty-four hours. So now I’m tired, my head hurts, and I’m trying to resist the urge to steal your money and go get myself something,” he replied flatly.

Dean was taken aback, surprise written all over his face as he inspected his friend. “Well, I’ll make sure not to leave my checkbook laying around, then.” Narrowed blue eyes inspected his face, but the man just gave a morose smile. “Hey, we’re going to set you right, okay? We’re going to fix you.”

The other buried his pale face in the bed, hiding it from his friend. “What if I don’t want to be fixed, Dean?” He’d intended for the words to come out sharp and scathing, but instead they were quiet, slightly muffled, and perhaps even scared. The position he was in caused the stitches in his abdomen to pull, so he adjusted himself and curled his knees up as close to his chest as he could manage.

He couldn’t see Dean, but he could imagine the perplexed countenance he must have been sporting. “Well… Why wouldn’t you?"

Castiel closed his eyes, feeling warm air brush over his nose and cheeks as he breathed into the pillow. “You would not understand,” he replied softly. “I have been living in a fog of decadence for two years. I have surrounded myself in pleasures, and why would anyone want to leave that? Why would anyone want to leave sustainable, near-constant bliss for the real world?”

He heard a sharp exhale. A few seconds passed, and then the bed creaked as Dean sat on the edge. “You’re right. Reality can seriously suck,” the man conceded, “but it can be pretty awesome, too.”

“The first time I tried acid,” Castiel murmured, “I imagined that I grew wings and that I could fly. I traveled across time, the world, and history. I watched Lucifer be cast out of Heaven. I watched the creation and the Fall of Man. I watched the flooding of the world and its ultimate rebirth. I watched as Lot’s wife was turned into a pillar of salt. I stood witness to Hammurabi’s Code being chiseled into stone. I saw the rise of Greek democracy. I saw infuriated nobles write the Magna Carta, and then I heard the bickering and squabbles as our founding fathers drafted our own constitution. I saw pagans battle in the names of their gods. I observed Rome’s triumph and its tragic downfall. I listened to the sound of Nero’s violin as the once great city burned to the ground. Tell me, Dean, what occurrence in my real life could compete?”

Dean didn’t respond for a long time, and Castiel didn’t expect him to. After all, the answer was simple: _nothing_. Life was cruel and boring; the skeletal creature curled beneath the sheets was but a pinprick on the map of the world’s history. Of course, he’d had bad trips before – terrible, _terrible_ trips – but he generally got to experience a much more fantastic reality than what he usually endured, a place of escape. And who would not want that?

“Were you happy?”

The question struck Castiel, causing him to look up at Dean. The man was barely seated on the bed, giving plenty of room between them. His elbows leaned on his knees, and he stared at his clasped hands.

“I was fascinated,” Castiel replied, blue eyes watching the other inquisitively.

“But were you _happy_?”

He shrugged, huffing through his nose. “Not in that instance. However, I have had trips where I was happy.”

“What about after you came down?”

Cas gave a sigh and twisted around so that he was lying on his back. “Why are you asking—“

Dean cut him off harshly, “Just answer. Were you happy afterward?”

He let the silence fester for a moment before he finally answered, “No. Never.”

The man sitting on the bed nodded, looking up at the wall as if he’d made his point.

“You know, life can suck. You and I both know that pretty damn well. But _I_ … I don’t have to _rely_ on something to make me happy. I can go out and experience it in the real world. But you… It seems to me like you’ve gotta find some kind of drug or beer or whatever to make you feel that way, and it doesn’t actually help you. Like you said, it only lasts while you’re on it. I guess… I mean, what I’m saying…” Dean fumbled over his words, and his lips pursed together as he tried to find the right phrasing. “When you’re actually happy about something, it stays with you. But the kind of… _ecstasy,_ or whatever, that you get from all that crap doesn’t.” He ran a hand through his hair, obviously unsatisfied with his explanation.

Castiel understood, though. He could at least see where the other man was going. A difference existed between the real world and the fantasy world. The bliss found in the latter could only last in that realm, and upon sobering, the joy found in unreality could never carry over into true reality, because it was an artificial feeling to begin with. No matter what he might experience while he was high, it would only reveal itself again if he did more drugs, and it would _never_ expose itself in real life.

“It’s not just about happiness, Dean,” he responded, closing his eyes. “It’s about separating from one’s surroundings and one’s self.”

“Well, suck it up.”

The young man’s eyes snapped back open, and he stared incredulously at his friend. “Excuse me?”

Dean finally looked at him, as well, and his face was completely serious. “Suck it up. We’ve all got shit to deal with in our lives, and we gotta face it. You can’t just run from your problems, or they’re gonna build up and come back to bite you in the ass. It ain’t easy, but it’s just what we gotta do.”

Blue hues flashed dangerously, and the injured one managed to push himself into an upright position. With a rising voice, he said, “Dean, you are—“

“No, _listen_ to me. Life can suck, but it can be awesome, too. Stuff that happens in _reality_ is what’s gonna make you happy, not some… Some shit that’s slowly killing you and leaves you feelin’ even worse when it’s all over.” His voice was building in exasperation and anger. “And I don’t _get it_. Why don’t _you_ like you? I mean, sure, you’ve been doing some pretty fucked up stuff lately, but...”

Castiel licked his lips, breathing in the silence. “You don’t know everything about me,” he replied, his voice meek and quiet compared to the other’s.

“That doesn’t matter, because you’re still _Cas_. You’re still smart; I mean, your _acid trip_ was about history and friggin’ Bible stories. Who else would have an experience like that? But you’re also so fucking _stupid_.” He stopped, breathing in deeply through his nose. “I mean, what _don’t_ I know about you? What deep, dark secret could you be hiding that you think you’re such a terrible person? Did you kill someone? Kick a puppy? What?”

Castiel could see the outrage and confusion in his friend’s face and hear it ringing in his words. The young man squirmed in his seat and stared at his lap. “It was bad enough to get me kicked out of my own house, Dean… Doesn’t that tell you enough?"

Dean smirked, shaking his head. “Not really, because Michael’s kind of an all-around douchebag.”

The insult managed to make Cas smile. Even after _everything_ , he still loved his brother… But he had to agree with Dean; Michael was a dick. Still, he shook his head. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

Dean turned so that he was facing him more completely. Leaning forward, the man reached out and gripped the other’s sharp, bony shoulder, looking him in the eye. “Come on. Give me the benefit of the doubt here.”

Castiel stared at him, eyes wide and frightened. They were so close, and he knew that it would only take the slightest effort to lean forward and _show_ _him_ exactly what was nearly impossible to say. But he couldn’t do that; he _knew_ he couldn’t do that, and his hands started shaking again, though he couldn’t tell if it was from anxiety or the lack of alcohol.

“I _can’t_ ,” he choked out again.

Dean recoiled, affronted by the sound, and stood up abruptly. The trembling man stared at his lap again as he waited. His friend would have a tantrum; he would storm out; he would leave so that he could go be angry somewhere else.

But, astonishingly, he didn’t. Instead, he said, “Fine. You don’t have to tell me now, but… I wanna… I hope you’ll tell me eventually.”

Sky-colored eyes drifted upward, inspecting the other carefully. Dean seemed so out of character in these talks. After all, he’d avoided anything that involved serious matters or emotions like the plague when they were kids. When he finally _would_ open up and talk about them, though, it had always been reluctant and graceless. He’d never heard Dean as open as he had been these past two nights, and it made him wonder if this really _was_ the same man from years ago.

“Maybe,” he yielded.

There was a tense silence, and Dean ran a hand through his hair. “So, I was gonna make dinner – _fish_.” Castiel silently chuckled at the look of disgust on his man’s face. “When I’m done… would it be cool if I came and ate with you guys?”

His face was screwed up in a small, hopeful smile with raised brows. The bed-ridden man could do nothing but beam warmly and nod. “Of course.”

When he left, Dean took the breakfast plate with him, giving his friend a comment about how he should eat more. His departure signaled to Sam and Gabriel that it was time to reenter. Despite his headache, shakes, and quickly growing fatigue, Castiel managed to remain in high spirits for them. Dinner was… Well, it was nice. They chatted through commercials of some stupid, funny show. They all teased each other, and Dean freaked out when he discovered that Gabriel had already eaten a quarter of the not-so-cleverly hidden apple pie. Cas smiled at the scenes as they unfolded around him, because it felt so much like home and family that warmth spread through his chest. It was one of the rare moments of happiness that he found in real life, and watching his brother and the Winchesters with fond eyes as they quarreled and laughed sealed his decision for him. Dean was right about experiencing real delight, and Cas determined that he wouldn’t call Meg back.

The boys filed out, and Gabriel said his goodbyes. Sam was forced to carry all the dishes. They plates had all been practically licked clean except for Castiel’s, which was only half-eaten. His glass of water, on the other hand, had been filled five times since they’d all sat down (the youngest Winchester had been made the water boy). It was hardly a substitute for alcohol, though.

“Dean.”

The man in question turned around, countenance questioning. Castiel stared at him for a moment, tongue flicking out nervously to wet his lips.

“Thank you,” he finally managed.

Grass-colored eyes crinkled around the edges in contentment. “No problem, Cas.”

The door closed softly behind him, and the sickly man sighed. He spent the next hour watching television before dismissing himself to the bathroom for a shower. When he returned, he fell into the bed (as much as someone with a broken leg, broken ribs, and ruptured spleen could) and nuzzled back into the sheets. The clothes he’d been wearing earlier had been unceremoniously thrown to the floor, all except Dean’s jacket. He told himself he was keeping it because he tended to get cold at night, even with the blankets, so he pulled it on and wrapped it snugly about his emaciated torso. Face buried in the pillow, he slowly inhaled. Moments later, the young man fell asleep.

He was awoken by the rough shaking of his upper body, forcing him awake as a voice urgently called his name. His throat felt raw, and his injured chest and leg screamed in pain alongside old and new bruises. In the first few moments of consciousness, he recognized the absolute terror that had flooded his entire body. It took a few tear-blinded, gasping seconds to get a hold of what was going on and where he was.

He was lying on the ground – well, mostly on the ground – beside his bed. His top half was uncomfortably nestled in someone’s lap, and electric blue eyes worked hard to get the image above him into focus. The terror racking his body lessened slightly at the sight of Dean Winchester’s worried face staring at him from above. He watched the man release a breath, his shoulders relaxing and gaze flicking somewhere more distant. Castiel followed his eyes and saw Sam standing in the doorway, looking just as scared.

“You okay, Cas?” Dean asked, and the two were looking at each other again.

The young man nodded, lifting a bone-thin arm up to brush it over his eyes. “Y-yes. I just… What happened?”

“You had a nightmare, I guess,” he replied, gaze flickering between Sam and Castiel. “You were screaming and when we came in, you were face down on the floor.” He pursed his lips together, then locked eyes with his brother. “Help me get him into the bed.”

The Winchesters carefully picked up their guest, flinching at the pained noises that hissed from between his teeth. When they propped him up, they allowed him to lean against the wall. Blue eyes went wide when Dean’s hand slipped beneath the jacket, pressing against the wound on his chest. When the man pulled it away, he examined his fingers.

“Your stitches might have popped open. Do you mind if I check?”

Cas shook his head, causing the eldest Winchester to look back at his brother. “Uh, go ahead and go back to bed. If we end up needing to go to the hospital, I’ll let you know.”

Sam’s nervous eyes flicked between the two men, and he shifted in his spot. “Are you sure? I mean, I could help…”

His brother just shook his head. “We’ll be fine, Sammy.”

The youngest brother ran a hand through his shaggy brown hair, obviously not convinced. After a moment of awkwardly standing in the doorway, though, he finally left. That was Dean’s cue to sigh and turn back to his friend, taking a seat on the bed. He grabbed the dark green lapels, gingerly working the jacket off of Castiel’s thin shoulders. Blue eyes stared everywhere but at him, his heart beating violently in his pale throat. The coat was laid to the side.

“Arms up.”

The young man did as he was told, staring at the ceiling as the white shirt was pulled up over his head. When it came off, he finally dared to glance at his friend. Green eyes were looking disdainfully at the snakes tattooed on one of the thin arms, and the dark, ugly bruises covering his withered frame and concave stomach. He didn’t stare long, however, and reached forward to peel back the large piece of gauze just under Cas’ pectoral.

There was one long, vertical slice close to the edges of his ribs that ran several inches long. Delicate black stitches surrounded the pink area, keeping the skin together. There seemed to be no bleeding or tearing.

“You’re all right,” Dean concluded. “Good thing you’re getting these things taken out tomorrow. Michael’s coming by at noon to take you to your appointment.”

Castiel bit his lip, looking between his hands and the ceiling, looking _anywhere_ but at Dean because the man’s fingers were gently gliding over his bare skin, trying to delicately reapply the gauze. He didn’t like the idea of seeing Michael. After all, he’d spent the last four and a half years trying to _avoid_ his brother. It had been awkward enough seeing him at the hospital, having to listen to his condescending, bitter, disgusted voice…

Cas took in a deep breath, staring at the black television screen. “Dean, would you be willing to take me instead? I just… I don’t feel comfortable going with Michael.” A more accurate statement would have been _I don’t feel comfortable being in a small, confined space with Michael for more than two minutes_.

The man furrowed his brows, but gave a small nod. “Uh, yeah. Sure, I guess. I’ll call him in the morning,” he agreed slowly.

Cas nodded, exhaling in relief. “Thank you.”

Dean pressed around the edges of the bandage, hand falling away after what seemed like _way_ too long. The shirtless man’s heart was racing, but not because of his nightmare’s aftermath. He tried to focus on that, though, tried to think of what had scared him so badly.

“Do you… Do you wanna talk about it?”

The messy-haired man adjusted his gaze to stare at Dean. He smirked slightly, because he could hear the effort it took for his friend to say those words. After all, the Winchester didn’t talk about his feelings, and the fact that his face was screwed up in an attempt to look pleasant was enough to make Cas smile.

“No,” he said, chuckling quietly. “It’s okay.”

Slightly offended, the brunette asked, “Why are you laughing?”

“Because, Dean… You’re amusing when you try to make sympathetic conversation.”

The other rolled his eyes and shook his head, though it couldn’t hide the smile creeping up his face, as well. “Like I said… I’m trying to help.” Green eyes fell on Cas, and once more he gave him that _look_. The look that the pale, thin man had tried to ignore and had tried not to recognize as fondness. “But, seriously… You wanna talk? I’m all ears.”

Castiel shrugged. “I’m sorry, but I actually don’t remember what I had a nightmare about. I’m trying to recall it, but I’m coming up empty.”

“That’s not what I was talking about.”

They stared at each other, and he knew exactly what his friend had meant. He was asking about Michael. He was wondering why Castiel didn’t want to see his brother, why the two Novaks were so estranged. And for an insane moment, Cas thought about telling him. What was the worst that could happen?

_He could leave again_.

Castiel had to admit, talking to Dean, going out to lunch, just hanging out with him again… It was nice. It was _more_ than nice. It was like he had his best friend back. It was like they were fifteen again, and he’d missed that feeling _so bad_. Sure, it was probably foolish to think that. He had no reason to believe that he wouldn’t get hurt, but he didn’t particularly care. At least not right now.

But he still couldn’t tell him. Even if he wanted to, he wasn’t sure he’d actually be physically capable of it. After he’d confessed to Michael and it had all blown up in his face, he had never really said it out loud again. Perhaps once or twice while under the influence but _never_ sober. He was afraid of what Dean would think of him, and it was childish because he shouldn’t care. He was smart enough to _know_ that he shouldn’t be ashamed, but that didn’t stop him from trying to ignore it, deny it, sleep with every woman Meg brought to him because maybe one of them would be the one to prove him wrong.

Maybe he’d tell Dean one day, but it wasn’t going to be tonight.

“Will you hand me my shirt?” he asked.

Dean appeared exasperated but did as he was asked anyway. The young man struggled to put it back on, grimacing as his knuckles brushed over new bruises. He felt worse than he had when he’d gone to sleep. As if sensing this, his friend stood up and walked around the bed to the miniature refrigerator. It was stocked with only water, juice and milk now, no trace of liquor. Dean grabbed the milk and filled a plastic cup from the top of the fridge. After handing it to Cas, he rounded the bed to grab the bottle of aspirin from the end table.

“I could’ve gotten that, Dean,” Cas said.

The man shrugged, popping a couple pills into his hand before giving them to his friend. “It’s alright. I don’t mind. I can’t imagine you’re feeling too good, so go ahead and take these.”

Cas swallowed them, and quickly finished the rest of the milk. He handed the cup back to Dean and smiled. “Thank you for taking care of me, Dean,” he murmured sincerely.

He was met with upturned lips, though it looked tired and sad on Dean’s face. “No problem. You gonna be okay?”

Castiel bobbed his head in an answer. “I’m a grown man. I can handle myself.”

“Yeah right,” the brunette snorted. He waited a moment, still staring at his friend before glancing at the door. “Well, I guess I’ll leave… Don’t have any more nightmares, got it?”

“Heh. I got it.”

The lights went out, and the door proclaimed that Dean had left. Castiel slid back into the bed, grabbing the jacket that was still folded near his knees and putting it back on. _I don’t want to get cold_ , he told himself. He fell asleep soon after he laid his head on the pillow, and, thankfully, there were no more nightmares.


	11. Right Through You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even if Dean despises the very ground Michael walks on, at least he was good for something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is the last chapter (other than the epilogue). I want to thank my awesome beta, Laura, for sticking with me through all of this. I also want to thank all the readers who have stuck it out until the end. You guys really encourage me to keep writing and stick it out until the very end. Thanks to all my readers, both old and new. I’ll be writing another fic (that, according to the plotline, is going to be much longer than this one) that’s a 1920s AU, so some of you may want to watch out for that. Again, thanks for everything, and I hope you enjoy the final chapter.

“Cas! Hurry up! It’s time to go!”  
  
“I have a broken leg; I can only move so fast.”  
  
Dean leaned against the kitchen island, arms crossed over his chest as he waited for his friend. An amused smile tugged at his lips while he watched Castiel gracelessly attempt to maneuver his wheelchair through the narrow hall of the apartment. When the man tried to turn, however, he somehow came to an abrupt stop, his wheels refusing to move. Dean covered his mouth as he watched the other struggle to get going, but after a few seconds, Cas stopped, scowling at the chair.  
  
“What’s wrong? You need some help?” Dean asked, biting back giggles as he was shot a glare. With an extravagant sigh, he pushed off from the counter.  
  
When he reached Cas, he leaned in close, face just a few breaths away from his friend’s neck. He gave the chair a twist and then lifted it a few inches from the ground to carry it into the open. When he’d set it back down, he stood up and took a moment to look his friend over.  
  
Castiel was in Dean’s sweatpants, which were way too big for him and probably would’ve fallen off if he’d tried to stand up. He was wearing one of Dean’s white tee-shirts (Sam had started complaining about how he had nothing to wear to school with their new guest borrowing everything), as well as the jacket he’d given him yesterday, both of which were falling off of his narrow, skinny shoulders. His face was red for some reason, and Dean couldn’t figure out why. Maybe it was hot in the bedroom? He’d have to check and make sure it wasn’t getting too stuffy in there.  
  
They left the apartment, and he aided his crippled friend by half-carrying, half-tossing him into the passenger seat. On their way to the hospital, Dean caught Cas giving him strange looks every now and then. He didn’t know what they were supposed to mean, and they made his stomach twist, so eventually he asked if there was something on his friend’s mind.  
  
“Oh, uh, nothing,” Castiel answered, and he turned to look out the window, effectively hiding his face from Dean’s glances. In a slightly nervous voice, he asked, “Michael didn’t give you any trouble, did he?”  
  
Dean’s jaw clenched, and he gripped the steering wheel a bit tighter at the memory of their phone conversation.  
  
 _(“He said you make him uncomfortable.”_  
  
 _“Oh, it makes sense that he’d feel that much better in the hands of his absentee boyfriend.”)_  
  
“He was an asshole about it, but, I mean, there’s nothing he can do. I just told him I was taking you and that he could suck it.”  
  
Cas nodded, but didn’t say anything for the rest of the car ride. They arrived at the doctor’s, and the stitches were removed quickly. Dean gave the nurse a full report on how Cas seemed to be doing and how he was eating more. She smiled and looked between them, and why _couldn’t_ Dean figure out what was on people’s faces lately? Whatever it was, it made him feel slightly uncomfortable, so he rushed Cas out as soon as everything was done.  
  
They made an appointment for him to get his cast taken off, which would be in a month. Apparently, he was also supposed to use his wheelchair as often as possible for the next seven weeks, which meant Cas wouldn’t be going back to the bar to work for a long time. Dean couldn’t complain about that, though; he’d been planning on trying to talk his friend into a different job, anyway, one that didn’t involve him being around alcohol.  
  
The doctor asked how often Castiel drank and used “illicit drugs.” The man in question explained the different substances he’d used in the past—ecstasy and marijuana, mostly—and how he was no longer partaking in any of those things. Dean also explained that he was helping Cas quit cold turkey. The doctor suggested keeping him in there for some kind of “detox,” but both men refused. After watching his dad drink for years and seeing Cas now, Dean thought that it was mostly a psychological thing, especially since the withdrawal symptoms he could see were seemingly mild. His friend had probably been drinking in response to stress and being in social situations that encouraged it, so the best thing to do for him would be to keep him content and away from it. Besides, he wanted to keep his friend out of the hospital as much as possible.  
  
That seemed like it would be an easy job until Dean was rolling Cas from the hospital and out to the Impala. Michael was there, dressed in a damn suit, radiating anger. The fact that he was there would have been enough to get Dean’s blood boiling, but what was worse was that the man was _leaning_ on his baby. That crossed a fucking line.  
  
“What are you doing?” Dean asked as he approached, scowling at the older man.  
  
He watched Michael push off of the car to stand up, crossing his arms over his chest to regard Cas and Dean with contempt and condescension.  
  
“Well, I thought it pretty likely that neither of you would call me to let me know how this went, so I thought I’d drop by myself. I am _paying_ for the remainder of his medical bills, you know,” he responded coolly, snake-like eyes studying Cas.  
  
“You could have just called,” growled the Winchester, hauling Cas to the side of the car opposite of Michael.  
  
“Yes, but then I wouldn’t have been able to see my darling brother, would I?” the man replied, circling around the Impala so that he was standing in front of his brother and effectively blocking the car doors.  
  
Dean glared at him, jaw tense as he gripped the handles of the wheelchair. “His stitches were fine. His cast comes off on the fifth and he’s supposed to use this thing,” he gestured to Cas’ seat, “for the next month and a half. Now you can leave.”  
  
“What?” he snapped. “Can’t I have a conversation with my own family?”  
  
“ _No_. Now move.” And if Cas wasn’t in the chair—hell, if Cas just wasn’t _injured_ \--, he would have rammed it into that smug son of a bitch and knocked him down.  
  
His eyes were alight with hatred and anger, and somehow Michael’s blue ones were able to stay cold and arrogant. The eldest Novak stepped forward, inches from the chair, and his gaze went from his brother to Dean.  
  
“You know, Dean, I allowed you to take Castiel in because—“  
  
“Woah! Excuse me? _Allowed_ me?” the Winchester interjected. “You didn’t _allow_ me. Cas is a grown man, able to make his own damn decisions. You didn’t ‘allow’ me to do anything. You—“  
  
“ _Dean_. Enough.” And surprisingly, these words didn’t come from Michael; they came from his younger brother, whom the brunette hadn’t looked at this entire time.  
  
When he finally scrunched up his face and turned it down to peer at Cas, he noticed how small the other appeared. His shoulders were slightly hunched, and his eyes were downcast, refusing to look at either of them.  
  
“What do you want, Michael?” Cas’ voice was resigned, and he was staring at his feet.  
  
Self-satisfaction flashed over the man’s face as he looked from Dean to his sibling. “Well, your _friend_ hasn’t exactly been keeping me up-to-date. I was wondering if he was doing his job of keeping you away from all those vices and… _life choices_ that you’ve been indulging in,” he said, sounding much more like his usual, measured self.  
  
“I haven’t done anything that you would frown upon while I have been living with Dean,” he answered quietly.  
  
“Judging by the fact that you don’t smell like marijuana or alcohol, I’m going to guess the former is true. However, the latter isn’t quite as convincing. After all, you’re wearing his clothes.” He looked down his nose at both of them, as if each one was a less-than-human thing that he’d much prefer to be distanced from.  
  
Dean was simply confused, completely oblivious to whatever Michael was trying to insinuate. Then again, maybe not _completely_ oblivious. After all, he’d had his hunches over the years, and if Michael was saying what Dean maybe kinda sorta _thought_ he was saying, well, the part where Castiel wasn’t exactly straight would not have been surprising. The part where he was with Dean, though, was a bit harder to swallow.  
  
“I do not own many of my own clothes, Michael. My money was often spent on other things,” Cas replied, and his voice was much smaller than it was before. Dean could hear remnants of the meek, awkward boy he’d known as a child, who would hide behinds books and schoolwork in an attempt to go by unnoticed.  
  
“Oh. That’s right. You spent all of your earnings on brain-numbing, body-destroying drugs. I forgot.”  
  
Dean bit, “You know what, _Mikey_? How about you just shut your mouth and move so we can leave?”  
  
Piercing eyes settled on him, narrowing before a sneer took over his face. “Did you ever tell him, Castiel? I highly doubt it. After all, if _I_ were him and found out about you, I _certainly_ wouldn’t let you sleep in my house, let alone my bedroom.”  
  
The younger brother took to staring at his feet again. Dean took in a deep breath, gritting his teeth as he backed out from between the cars, pushing Cas so that his chair was parked right in front of the Impala.  
  
“I’d seriously suggest shutting up,” Dean growled, and he stepped back between his baby and the car parked next to her, facing Michael head on.  
  
A somewhat amused look crossed the older man’s face. “Hm. Maybe you _do_ know,” he mused, then looked at his brother. “Keep me informed, this time around, if you still want me to pay for your medical bills. Then again, if I find out you two are having sex, then I _certainly_ won’t—“  
  
Castiel gave a loud gasp as he heard the sharp _crunch_ of Dean’s fist colliding with Michael’s face. The blue-eyed snake fell to the ground, clutching his bleeding nose in shock. Dean was breathing heavy, standing menacingly above him for a with a full-on scowl coating his face. With a sharp turn, he returned to his friend.  
  
“Get in the car. Hurry up,” he growled, pushing Cas to the passenger’s side and helping him in.  
  
He ignored the insults and threats that were being unceremoniously spat from Michael’s bloodied lips. Dean walked to the driver’s side just as the fallen man was getting to his feet. Red was dripping from his nose, smeared across his lips and hands. He opened his mouth to say something, but the fiercely angry brunette stopped him.  
  
“You know what?” he snarled. “Fuck you. You can take your money, and you can shove it up your ass. _I’ll_ take care of Cas while you go spend that on learning how to be a good fucking brother. And if you feel like cleaning up your nose, there’s a hospital forty feet that way.” His head jerked sharply behind him.  
  
He gave Michael a harsh shove away from the door, then climbed into the Impala and let the engine roar to life. He was plenty happy to watch the Novak disappear in the rearview mirror.  
  
Nothing was said on the drive home. Dean didn’t even play the radio. He just drove, stewing in his own anger and suspicion until he’d parked the car in her usual spot. He didn’t get out, though. Instead, he turned her off and looked over at Cas.  
  
“Hey,” he said. When he noticed the other purposefully turn the other way, he repeated himself a bit louder. The passenger reluctantly glanced over, and Dean couldn’t get over how much he looked like a kid again, with stooped shoulders and head tilted down. Like a dog afraid it was going to be hit. “Look,” he added in a softer tone. “You don’t have to tell me anything. I wish you would, but you don’t have to. Just… ignore everything he said, okay?”  
  
“You punched him in the face,” Castiel muttered, staring at Dean with eyes that made the man squirm in his seat.  
  
“Yeah…” he sighed. “Although, I’m not apologizing. That guy’s a doucher. I’ve wanted to hit him for years. Glad I finally had an excuse.” He flashed a tentative grin.  
  
A moment passed, and soon Cas was laughing, shaking his head. He ran a hand through his hair, over the scruff of a beard on his face, then looked back at Dean, just smiling.  
  
“I just… I can’t believe you did that,” he said. “I guess I should say thanks.”  
  
“Hey, no need to thank me! Like I said, I was more than happy to do it.” He waited a moment, just staring at Cas. He liked seeing him smile like this. It was rare, and after their talk about happiness, it made him feel like maybe he was actually doing a good job. Maybe he was helping repair Cas, helping to fix the mess he felt that he’d made. Finally, he said in a more serious tone, “So, what Michael was getting at… It was that you’re gay or something, right?” That quickly sobered the passenger up, and he looked away, nodding. “I’ve known that since we were kids.”  
  
“What?” The pure surprise on Castiel’s face made Dean chuckle and nod.  
  
“Yeah. I mean, when I came back, I just assumed I was wrong when I saw you with those girls at your apartment, and then you talked about all the women you slept with, but, dude, it’s totally cool.”  
  
The messy-haired man turned and looked in front of him. “Michael has said… many terrible things to me on the subject. I told him a few months after you left, and…” He swallowed, pursing his lips together. “He has done an excellent job of showing his disapproval.” Silence passed, and he added, “I do not think he’s going to continue paying for my doctor visits after that.”  
  
Dean shrugged. “I’ll do it. Ellen said she could use some help over at the Roadhouse, so I can pick up some shifts there.”  
  
“You don’t have to do that.”  
  
“I know. I want to.”  
  
Blue eyes turned to stare at the driver, riddled with confusion. “You are really okay with this? I thought that if you found out, if _anyone_ found out, really, that…” His voice drifted off.  
  
“Jesus, Cas, you can be freaking stupid sometimes.” So, Dean leaned through the space between them, grabbed the back of his friend’s head and pulled him into a long kiss.  
  
It was pretty tame, by Dean’s standards, and knowing the type of things his friend had been doing these past few years, he guessed it was comparatively chaste, too. Nonetheless, when he pulled back, Castiel’s face was crimson and maybe even frightened.  
  
“W-was that okay?” the driver asked, suddenly afraid that he’d crossed a line now that he saw the sunburnt-deer-in-the-headlights look.  
  
“Y-y-yes. That was, that was certainly okay,” the other stuttered. His eyes kept flickering between Dean’s eyes and lips, but he finally managed to say, “We should probably go inside.”  
  
The man smiled and nodded his agreement. “Probably.”  
  
They went up to the apartment. Dean helped his friend get settled on the couch, then went about making the two of them sandwiches. Castiel stared at him the entire time, a mix of disbelief and amazement coating his face. Occasionally, green eyes would flicker over to meet his gaze, amused, and Dean would smirk as he put their meal together. When it was finished, he came and sat next to his friend, offering one of the plates before digging in.  
  
A few minutes into it, Cas said, “It’s very hard to talk about.”  
  
“We don’t have to talk about it, then.”  
  
They continued eating, but the blue-eyed man couldn’t stop himself. “I was devastated after you left,” he muttered, staring at the half-eaten sandwich on his plate. His voice was quiet, slow, as if he were struggling to get out each word. His friend put his own plate on his lap, then watched the other intently. “Heartbroken, really. Michael tried to comfort me, and after a lot of coercion, I finally told him that I thought… Well, I thought I had romantic feelings for you, and that I was…  
  
“He didn’t take it well. He yelled at me, called me an… He called me terrible things. He tried to get me treatment, but I didn’t want it. I met Meg senior year, and she introduced me to drugs. When I moved out of the house, she and I spent a lot of time together. She helped me pick out an apartment. She helped me get the job at the bar. She knew that I was, too—you know, what I was into—and she thought it would be fun to try to find the perfect girl for me. I thought that if I had sex with enough women, I would eventually find one that would prove that I wasn’t interested in… in my own gender. Unfortunately, that never happened.”  
  
“I’m sorry, man,” Dean frowned.  
  
“It’s not your fault. It was a conglomeration of several different factors centered around my own weakness of character.”  
  
Castiel returned to eating, so the other did as well.  
  
“What do you think about staying?”  
  
Blue eyes glanced up at Dean. “What do you mean?”  
  
“Well, after you’re all better… What do you think about staying here with me and Sammy?” Dean asked, and he looked incredibly uncomfortable and nervous.  
  
“I don’t want your pity, Dean.”  
  
The man rolled his eyes. “It’s not pity. I just…” He sighed. God, did he feel like a girl. He hated talks like this. He went on in a mumble, “I really want you to stay. I like having you around.”  
  
Castiel’s cheeks turned pink again. “Well… Okay. Maybe we could do that.”  
  
“Cool.”

  
  
Later, Dean convinced Sam to spend the night at a friend’s house. Sam seemed overly excited about this, probably because he thought his and Gabriel’s plan of “get Cas and Dean to be friends” was working perfectly. And it certainly was.  
  
After dinner, the eldest Winchester lingered in the frame of the door, looking a bit unsure of himself until Cas asked him what he wanted. Dean replied with a slightly suggestive look, and he was quickly motioned inside. Once room had been made for him, Dean stripped off his pants and slid beneath the covers.  
  
“I figure we can at least share a damn bed; that couch has been killing my back,” he said, scooting so that he was pressed against the man’s side.  
  
It was strange, really, being this close. It wasn’t the closeness itself or the fact that this was another man (Dean had had his share of sexual partners, a small percentage of whom may have been male). It was the fact that this was _Cas,_ the same man who’d remained on the fringes of his mind for five years, who’d been his constant companion for fifteen. Even though it was strange, however, Dean couldn’t say that it was unpleasant.  
  
He let his chin rest on the other’s shoulder, breath flowing over the man’s neck and making him go rigid. “You alright?” he smirked.  
  
“You’re an asshole,” Castiel grumbled in response, then turned his head to look at him, staring into mischievous moss-colored eyes. “How long?”  
  
“How long what?”  
  
“Have you wanted me?”  
  
It was Dean’s turn to blush, but he hid it by pressing his lips to the other’s shoulder, kissing through the fabric. “Realized it when I punched your brother in the face. But if we’re being honest, I think it’s been going on a lot longer than that and I’ve just been too stupid to notice.”  
  
Castiel closed his eyes, pressing his forehead into Dean’s hair.  
  
“What _I_ don’t understand,” the brunette murmured, “is why me? Even back then. I don’t get it.”  
  
The other let out a heavy sigh, shifting as best he could with a broken leg to get closer to Dean. “You underestimate your self-worth. You sacrifice more of yourself for other people than anyone I have ever seen. You can be agonizingly blind and make stupid, completely wrong decisions. However, your intentions are always good, with only other people in mind.”  
  
“But what about when I just left? That was pretty selfish.”  
  
“Yes. And I’m probably a fool for giving you another chance. But in my eyes, it was the first time that you’d ever shown a hint of self-interest when it came to big issues.” He smiled slightly. “Besides, if you ever try to pull that again, I will hunt you down and drag you back.”  
  
“You won’t have to worry about that.”  
  
“Promise?”  
  
“Yeah.”


	12. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ten months later, Dean and Castiel were nestled in the tall grass of a field in the Kansas countryside.

Ten months later, Dean and Castiel were nestled in the tall grass of a field in the Kansas countryside. It was itchy and poked them at odd angles, but neither seemed to mind. They were staring up at the sky, so full of stars that it looked heavenly and surreal. Their sides were flush against one another, hands clasped. Cas would occasionally point at the dark canvas stretched above them, naming the constellations and smiling when Dean made up his own.  
  
Castiel hadn’t touched alcohol in over four months; he’d broken down after a panic attack, and after tears and some yelling, Dean had helped him get through it. He hadn’t touched any drug since he’d told Meg he wanted out. Having gained weight, the sharp lines of his body were less piercing, though he was still much skinnier than he should have been. The young man had even managed to get a secretarial job for the company John Winchester worked for (who was surprisingly okay with their relationship, despite how awkward he was talking about) and helped Dean pay rent and other bills for the apartment. There were times that they thought they wouldn’t get everything paid, but somehow, they managed. He often thought about going back to college, too, but that would have to wait.  
  
He didn’t see Gabriel as often as he would have liked. Though he’d graduated, the youngest Novak was still living with Michael until college began. However, he’d often lie and find an excuse to go visit his brother and the Winchesters for a few hours, and that always made Castiel happy. He hadn’t spoken to Raphael, who only communicated via birthday cards, it seemed. His family was pretty broken, really, but he had Dean, Sam, and Gabriel, and occasionally John when the man decided to visit.  
  
It had been rough. There were many moments where he and Dean were both insecure, wanting to quit, but they had worked through all of them. It was awful at times, beautifully wonderful at others, and generally just nice. Castiel’s life was far from perfect, but most of the time, he was truly happy. The kind of happy that lasted, that seeped into his bones and left him with a feeling better than any drug could have given him.  
  
His arm fell to his side, and he stared silently at sky, content with the summer breeze and music of chirping insects. Minutes passed, and soon Dean had rolled on top of him, blocking his view of the stars. He gave a playful frown, grumbling when soft lips were pressed against his.  
  
“I’ve been thinking,” Dean began quietly, gently gripping the young man’s shoulders as he straddled him.  
  
“That is a dangerous activity. You weren’t harmed, were you?” Castiel smirked, and it just earned him a sharp bite to the lip.  
  
“I was going to say that I thought you should stick around, but I don’t know if I need another smartass in the house.”  
  
“You’ve already asked that question, Dean. Remember? I haven’t been—”  
  
The Winchester leaned in and kissed him again, shutting him up. It was slow and sensual, an unusual pace for Dean, though not entirely unheard of. Cas sighed quietly, then curiously looked up when the other pulled away.  
  
“I meant, kind of, like, you know… Forever, or something,” the brunette mumbled, and even in the pale light of the moon and stars, Cas thought he could see a blush rising over the man’s cheeks. “Like, you’d live with me and we wouldn’t ever see anybody else, and we’d… Something like that.”  
  
Castiel smiled and wrapped one arm around the man’s waist, the other coming up to cup his face. “Isn’t that what we’re already doing?”  
  
“But I’m talking about the _rest_ of our lives.”  
  
The young man laughed quietly, thumb gently stroking the other’s cheek. “So, you’re essentially asking me to marry you. Is that it?”  
  
He could actually feel Dean’s face heat up. “No! That’s not… I mean, I guess it’s sort of like that, but I didn’t…”  
  
Pulling him down, Cas brought their lips together again, enjoying a languid, intimate kiss for several moments before pulling away. “Yes, Dean. I’d be more than happy to do that.”  
  
Dean stumbled over his words, and finally just replied with a lame, “Okay.” He stayed on top of his lover, though, not moving from his spot as he stared at the other’s face. “I guess this means I love you, or whatever…”  
  
Castiel just laughed and beamed up at him. “I guess this means I love you, too… Or whatever.”


End file.
